Page 169 of Cruel When He Smiles
An irrational, feral need to bite down on something because he’s so goddamn cute, I don’t know what else to do with it. It’s not the same kind of hunger I usually feel around him, not the sharp-edged, predatory pull. This is… worse. Softer and more dangerous in a way that has my hands curling into fists just to keep from grabbing him too hard.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, tilting his head, strands of hair falling into his eyes again.
I force myself to set the keys down slowly, my fingers curling into my palm. “You’re really trying me right now, Pup.”
His brows lift, and he leans a little closer, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “What, you gonna punish me for being adorable?”
And that’s it—the last thread of patience snaps, but not in the way he’s expecting. I hook an arm around his waist and drag him against me so fast he yelps, half laughing and half surprised. My other hand tangles in the back of his hair, tilting his head to bare the line of his throat. “You have no idea how close you are to me sinking my teeth into you right now.”
His eyes widen, but the smile stays. “Because I’m cute?”
“Because you’re too fucking cute,” I admit, my voice a little rougher than before. “So cute it’s actually pissing me off.” I press my mouth to his neck and bite softly. “It’s not safe for you to look at me like that.”
He laughs, soft and breathless, leaning into me. “You’re insane.”
“Completely,” I agree, not moving away yet. My grip tightens for a second before I let him go, and he stumbles back with a mock glare that’s ruined by the way his lips keep twitching upward.
“You’ve got issues,” he mutters, but he’s smiling as he finally pulls on his hoodie, the sleeves swallowing his hands.
“And you’re one of them,” I shoot back, snagging my keys again and heading for the door before I actually do end up throwing him over my shoulder just to get the energy out.
He bounces past me toward the hallway, humming some half-formed tune under his breath, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.
Cuteness aggression is a dangerous thing—especially when the person causing it already owns every inch of you.
Liam
Iwakewiththatcrawl across the back of my neck—the kind of prickling awareness that doesn’t come from dreams or half sleep, but from something deeper. Instinct. It latches onto my spine, whispering that something in the room is wrong.
My eyes take a moment to adjust. The familiar warmth I always reach for isn’t there, but the bed’s not empty.
The sheets are twisted but not tangled; the space beside me is filled but distant. Nate isn’t curled into me like he always is, shoulder pressed against my ribs, hand underneath my shirt and over my heart.
He’s upright instead, knees pulled tight to his chest, the blanket hanging off his waist like he’d forgotten it was even there. He’s still. Too still.
I prop myself up on one elbow, watching him. His mouth is slack, eyes are open and staring straight ahead, wide but unseeing. It’s not panic or fear, but absence. He’s in that placeagain—some quiet, unreachable space inside his own head, and I hate how familiar it’s become.
“Nate,” I say, keeping my voice low, just loud enough to break through the silence that’s no longer peaceful.
No flicker. No reaction. No sign he heard me.
I reach for him, fingers brushing along his forearm. His skin is warm, tense beneath my touch, but he doesn’t startle or pull away. “Pup,” I murmur, leaning in closer. “Look at me.”
His head turns slowly, a delayed kind of movement, like the message only just made it to his muscles. When his gaze meets mine, it’s almost disorienting—those sharp green eyes are clear as glass, but detached.
Then he blinks once, his mouth parts, and his voice comes out calm. “I’m ready.”
Two words. Just two. But they land in my chest with the force of a sledgehammer. I sit all the way up, hand still on his arm, and study his face for confirmation. There’s no mistaking it. We’ve talked about this, and I promised I’d follow his lead. I’d wait until he said when.
I just didn’t expect it to be tonight.
“Are you sure?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He doesn’t hesitate when he reaches under the blanket, finds my hand, and curls his fingers around mine with a grip that’s steady. “I want to do it tonight.”
“Why tonight?” I ask, then notice where his eyes are focused. I follow his gaze toward the clock on the nightstand, its dim green display cutting through the dark—1:15 a.m., September 13.
The thirteenth of September: His birthday.
