Page 129 of Cruel When He Smiles
I love it.
And I hate it.
I’m not supposed to feel things like this. I don’t get happy when someone talks. I don’t find satisfaction in just existing next to someone. I don’t look at a person and need them to be close, to be safe, to be fucking okay. But with Nate, it’s different, and I don’t know why.
By the time he’s cleared to go back to campus four weeks later, I’m torn between relief and irritation. Relief because I need space to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me. Irritation because the thought of him being out of my sight makes my gut churn.
He’s happy to be going back. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, stretching his arms over his head, grinning at me like he hasn’t been holed up in my house for days, letting me take care of him while he catches up on his classes online.
I narrow my eyes, my grip tightening on the steering wheel as we pull up to campus. “Don’t get too excited, Pup.”
He smirks, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Some of us actually care about our degrees, Lover.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
His smirk widens. “Stop pretending to hate it,” he says, chuckling, before opening the door. “Relax, Callahan. I’ll be back before you even get the chance to miss me.”
I scowl as he hops out, watching him as he stretches again before slinging his bag over his shoulder, walking toward the quad like he’s not leaving a fucking mess in my head.
Today starts wrong, and it stays wrong.
I wake with the kind of heaviness that doesn’t belong to the night before but has been sitting under my skin for longer—lurking, waiting for the right moment to remind me it’s still there.
I feel it before my eyes even open. My muscles are drawn tight, my jaw aches from being clenched in my sleep, and my thoughts are already running too fast and too loud. There’s no gentle drift into awareness, no moment to stretch and breathe before the day takes me.
I’m already wound tight, already irritable, already pacing in my head.
I lie there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, already aware that I’m not going to like anything about today. My hands loosely fist the sheets, nails digging faint crescents into my palms. The blanket feels wrong—too heavy in some places, not enough in others—and the pillow under my head is either too firm or too soft, depending on which way I shift. It’s like the entire world woke up with the sole purpose of irritating me.
Still, I get up. I force myself through the motions because the alternative is worse. I stand under the shower until the water runs cold, hoping the shock will jolt something loose in my chest.
It doesn’t.
I dress without thinking, pulling on clothes that usually fit me like armor, but today the fabric feels wrong against my skin. I check the mirror and pull my expression into the familiar shape everyone knows me for—cool, unbothered, untouchable. It’s a mask I’ve worn so often, it’s second nature. Today, even the mask feels like it’s slipping and doesn’t sit right on my face.
I loathe feeling like this. Loathe the uncertainty, the confusion, the lack of control. My chest feels tight, my thoughts are tangled, my body is buzzing with some unnamed irritation that makes me itchy with the need to do something. To break something. To hurt something.
It’s written all over me, and apparently, everyone knows better than to test it.
Nate isn’t at practice, and my teammates keep their distance—especially Josh Miller. There’s no casual trash talk, no sideline comments. Passes are clean, drills are quick, and nobody lingers in my path. My professors skip over me in lectures, their eyes skimming past my raised brow like they’d rather pretend I’m not there. Even in the hallway between classes, bodies move out of my way before I’ve said a word.
Good.
I don’t want conversation. I don’t want to play nice. I want space—a quiet space where I can work this out without the risk of taking someone’s head off just for breathing too loudly in my direction.
There’s something off-balance in me, and I can’t fucking fix it. I try to ground myself, but that only makes it worse, because my mother’s voice slithers into my mind, as unwelcome as the fucking memories attached to it.
Control your breath, Liam.
Feel the earth beneath your feet. Feel your body in this space. Count the sounds around you.
Your mind is your own, and you must never let it own you.
I haven’t thought about that witch in years, but the fact that her fucking lessons still manage to tether me makes my stomach curl in revulsion.
And just like that, my mood gets even worse.
By my last class, I’m barely containing it. My fingers twitch against the desk, my jaw locked so tight it aches.
