Page 58 of Cruel When He Smiles
Liam
Themomentthedoorclicks shut behind Nate, I don’t move.
I just stay there for a while, still facing it, my expression blank now that no one’s here to see it. My heartbeat is steady, my posture relaxed, but there’s a flicker of adrenaline still running through me like aftershocks.
I draw in a slow breath, release it even slower, and then sit down on the bed again.
He’s going to break so beautifully.
Not from violence or fear, but from the trust he’s building in me. The part of him that thinks I’m the only one who understands how fucked up he is. That’s the part I’m subtly twisting now.
I did it. After everything, I became a safe place, the soft place just by seeing his fucked-up parts and not running. I’ve become the one he turns to when the world is too loud. A place even more sacred than Sage.
Soon, he won’t be able to breathe without me; he won’t even want to.
This is how you win wars—not by breaking down walls, but by getting the other side to open their locked gates. Tonight, Nate handed me the fucking keys.
So, over the next few days, I decided to stop watching him.
Not permanently, not entirely, since I’m not done with him yet. But I want to see what happens when I pull back. When I take my attention off him, when I stop pushing, stop pressing, stop baiting, and even stop comforting. I want to see what it does to him.
Nate is used to my pushing. He’s used to my eyes on him, used to my voice sliding under his skin, used to feeling watched. And whether he wants to admit it or not, he likes it. Or, at least, he’s gotten used to it. So, what happens when I take it away?
I find out at practice.
I run drills, focus on the team, play my game, and don’t spare Nate a second glance. When I pass him, I don’t make a comment. When I steal the ball from him, I don’t smirk. When we get paired up for sprints, I don’t try to get under his skin.
I just exist.
And Nate hates it.
He says nothing, doesn’t call me out, but I feel the way his frustration bleeds into his game. He’s playing harder than usual, too aggressive, too focused.
By the time practice is over, his mood is foul. I don’t acknowledge it; I just grab my things, towel off, and walk out without looking back. Then, after a shower back home, I keep the game going at our next session.
Dr. Ellis greets us both with the same polite smile, but I barely register it. I take my seat and keep my focus anywhere but on Nate. I don’t try to needle him, and I don’t throw out any comments designed to piss him off. I don’t watch him.
And god, seeing my Pup getting frustrated is fucking beautiful. For the first time since this started, I am not the one engaging, and Nate doesn’t know what to do with that.
Dr. Ellis talks, and I nod in all the right places. I listen just enough to seem engaged, while Nate sits there, waiting, expecting me to pull at the thread like I always do.
I want him to feel the absence, the lack of attention, and the space where I should be pushing.
If there’s one thing I know about Nate Carter, it’s that he hates feeling like he’s not in control. And right now, he’s losing control without me having to do anything at all.
By the time the first week is over, I can practically feel the storm brewing beneath his skin.
He’s going to snap. It’s just a matter of when.
…And it happens between classes.
The corridor is empty, students filtering out the doors, the sound of their voices fading down the halls. I don’t expect to be alone for long, but I don’t need long. I hear quick footsteps behind me, the kind that belong to someone who has spent the last week holding something in. “What the fuck is your problem?”
I turn just in time for Nate to barrel into my space, eyes burning, body tense, every muscle in him coiled.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His breath is uneven, like he ran here. “You’re gonna stand there and act like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
