Page 147 of Cruel When He Smiles
I take Liam upstairs without another glance toward either of them. He doesn’t speak—doesn’t throw one of his usual cutting remarks or try to deflect with that smug calm of his. He just follows me.
When we get into his room, I turn to face him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. His jaw is tight, flexing every few seconds, and his hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
It’s not the usual Liam Callahan energy—this isn’t the guy who always knows exactly where to put himself to stay in control.
I don’t bother asking if he’s okay, because that would be a joke right now. Instead, I strip off my shirt, tossing it to the side, then push my jeans down until I’m left in just my boxer briefs. I stand there, waiting, watching him, giving him the choice.
His breathing isn’t steady, it’s uneven, but finally he reaches for his belt. His movements are slow, like each motion has to pass through three separate approvals in his head before he does it. Then his jeans hit the floor and he kicks them off, but his shirt stays on.
I don’t say a word. I won’t push him because I know his shirt is one of his hard limits, one he hasn’t let go of, even for me.
But then my heart fucking drops when he reaches for my hands and places them on the buttons of his shirt. I search his face, my pulse roaring in my ears, my fingers freezing against the fabric. “Liam—”
He shakes his head once, barely, but his voice is quiet when he speaks. “I want to.”
NotI’m ready.NotI’m sure.
I think it’s the closest thing to trust he knows how to give. So, I swallow hard, my throat thick, my chest tight, my fingers shaking slightly as I slowly—so fucking slowly—undo the first button.
Liam doesn’t move and barely breathes. I go to the second, then the third. Each one feels heavier than the last, like peeling away layers of armor he’s spent his whole fucking life wrapping around himself.
When I push the shirt open, my chest tightens so hard it’s almost painful.
Scars.
Not just one.
Not just a few.
Fuckingscars.
Thick and twisting across his chest, his ribs, his fucking stomach, faded but deep, like whoever did this didn’t give a fuck if he lived through it or not. Liam exhales, his left hand twitching at his sides, his whole body so fucking tense that it takes me a second to realize he’s shaking.
I hesitantly lift my hand toward him and he sucks in a breath. “Nate…” His voice cracks, and that’s all it takes.
I skim my fingers lightly over one of the thickest scars along his ribs. His reaction is instant—he lets out this low, broken sound, somewhere between a flinch and a whimper.
My throat burns because I understand. I understand more than I want to. He’s never talked about his past in detail, but I don’t need a play-by-play to know what I’m looking at. This is history carved into him with a blade and whoever created it made sure he’d never forget.
I let my fingers keep moving, reminding him I’m here. “Liam,” I whisper, but my voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s lower,softer,but rough in the way it gets when something’s twisting in my chest. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he cuts in quietly, still not looking at me. “With you, I do. I need to give you this part of me.”
I step in closer until my chest brushes his, until there’s no space for him to hide in. My hand trails over another scar, thenanother, each one telling a story he’s not ready to say out loud. His breathing stays uneven, but his hands finally lift, gripping my hips hard.
“You’ve been carrying this alone for too long,” I tell him quietly. “You don’t have to anymore.”
His eyes flick up to mine, and for just a second, there’s no mask and no calculation. Just Liam, stripped down, human, and almost unbearably real. “You don’t know what that means for me.”
“Then show me,” I say, steady and certain. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
His chest rises and falls like he’s trying to laugh, breathe, and curse all at once, but nothing comes out. When his hands slide up my sides and his fingers skim over my ribs, it’s not to push me away—it’s to pull me closer.
For once, I don’t push for more than he’s ready to give. I don’t ask for details, don’t try to make him explain. I just stay there with him, in his space, in his silence, my hands over his scars like they’re something I can protect.
Because maybe I can’t erase what happened to him. But I can make sure he knows he’s not carrying it alone anymore.
He exhales slowly and then turns, shrugging the shirt fully off his shoulders. As the fabric slides down, I see ink running along his spine, black and stark against his skin.
