Page 59 of Cruel When He Smiles
I tilt my head slightly. “You seem upset.”
He lets out a short, furious laugh. “Yeah, no fucking shit, Callahan.”
I stare at him, quietly waiting, but I don’t say anything else. He huffs, runs a hand through his already-messy hair, then levelsme with the kind of glare that would probably scare me if I were a sane person.
“A week.” His voice is tight, and he’s seething. “A whole fucking week you’ve been walking around like I don’t exist.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought after everything, that’s what you wanted.”
His jaw clenches at that because thisiswhat he initially wanted. “Don’t pull that shit, not after I came to your house and you held me.”
I shrug. “I’m just saying, I’ve finally left you alone after weeks of pushing. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
His nostrils flare, and his fingers twitch at his sides. He hates that I’m calm. Hates that I’m treating this like a conversation when he’s standing here looking like he’s ready to rip my head off.
This boy is built for battle, but I’m not in the mood to fight him.
I take a step closer, watching his shoulders stiffen and his breath catches slightly before he masks it with anger.
And then I reach out, fingers brushing against his cheek, just a touch, just enough to see. His skin is warm, burning under my fingertips, and I feel the way his entire body reacts. His lips part, his pulse jumps, and his pupils dilate—all reactions that head straight to my cock.
But I keep my voice soft when I ask, “Do you want my attention, Pup?”
He freezes, and I know he wasn’t expecting that. I tilt my head, my thumb grazing the line of his jaw. “Because I was just giving you what you wanted… space from me. I thought it would make your life easier if I left.”
His breath comes harder now, his eyes locked on mine, frustration twisting through him, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t know what the fuck to do with me, and I love it.
Eventually, he slaps my hand away and he stumbles back a step, breathing uneven, green eyes flickering with confusion because he doesn’t understand and hates that he doesn’t understand.
“Fuck you, Liam,” he snarls, walking backwards. “I don’t need your goddamn pity.”
Then he turns on his heel, stalking down the hall with furious strides, because now he knows what happens when I pull away. He’s going to realize that, no matter how much he fights it, he wants me to look at him again.
And I will.
…When I decide he’s earned it.
Nate
Thefuckerhasn’tlookedat me in nearly three weeks.
At first, it was a relief. I told myself it was good that he’d backed off, that I could finally fucking breathe without feeling his eyes crawling over me, without waiting for him to smirk, to push, to test.
But this was all before he talked me down from spirals.
The second day, I pretended not to notice that he didn’t glance my way at practice, that he didn’t make some smart-ass comment when I missed a pass, that he didn’t bother. By the third day, I started to wonder if he was fucking with me again.
By the fourth, I knew he was.
I should’ve known better. I’ve dealt with people like him before. My mother trained me to recognize them—people who take your broken pieces and twist them into leverage. Who act like they care until they’re holding your throat in one hand and a mirror in the other, forcing you to look at every crack. And the moment you look grateful, they’re done.
I’ve survived worse than some psychopath with too many secrets and a messiah complex. I’ve survived my mother. I’ve survived years of being manipulated, gaslit, shoved into boxes that didn’t fit, and told to smile through all of it.
Liam Callahan is not new to me. He’s a recycled nightmare in prettier packaging.
So, I go through the motions. Wake up. Shower. Go to class if I feel like it, sleep with someone if I don’t, drink when I can, smoke when I need to. I drown in anything that numbs the part of me still reeling from what he flayed open in me.
Sage is pissed. He stops by my room more than once, knocking hard, his voice sharp through the door. “Nate, open the fucking door.”
