Page 156 of Cruel When He Smiles

Nate lets out a quiet breath, almost a sigh, and his shoulders loosen under my hands. I rub my thumbs along his scalp in slow circles, mindful of his still healing injury, the foam building until it slides between my fingers.

“You’re quiet,” he says finally, voice low enough that I barely catch it over the water.

“So are you,” I answer, rinsing the suds from my hands before working them through his hair again.

He hums, the sound vibrating faintly through him. “We don’t usually do quiet.”

“No,” I agree, watching the white foam rinse down over his shoulders, carrying the last faint traces of red with it. “We don’t.”

He turns his head to glance at me over his shoulder, his lashes heavy from the water. “What’s going on in there, Callahan?”

I could dodge it. I’ve dodged every version of this conversation my entire life. But I’m tired of dodging him. I rinse the rest of the shampoo from his hair, making sure it’s clear before I speak.

“I’m in love with you,” I say, and it’s so fucking easy once it’s out that I almost laugh at myself for not saying it sooner.

He turns slowly, water running down the sharp line of his jaw, his eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to figure out if I’m playing him.

“You’re serious,” he says, not a question, not a guess—just reading me the way he does when he knows I’m not lying.

“Yeah,” I say, and it’s steady, without hesitation. “I’m serious.”

I reach up and push the wet hair back from his forehead, letting my thumb drag briefly over his temple. “It’s not a game or a tactic. Not a move to keep you in check. I’m telling you because… you should know.”

His jaw works like he’s trying to find the right words and can’t. I don’t press him for them. Instead, I reach for the conditioner, working a small amount through the ends of his hair, untangling the strands with my fingers.

Nate’s quiet for a long moment before he says, “I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel safer or more fucked.”

“Both,” I answer honestly. There’s no point in pretending it’s anything else.

That earns me the faintest curve of his mouth, the kind that’s gone almost before it’s there. He tips his head back under the spray to rinse the conditioner out, and I watch how the water slides down his neck, then over his chest, tracing the muscles I know as well as my own now. I know every bruise I’ve left onhim, every mark, every sound he’s made under my hands, but this—this quiet—is different.

When he’s done, I let my hands rest lightly on his hips, thumbs brushing the slick skin there. He doesn’t pull away. His eyes find mine again, and this time there’s no hesitation in the look in his eyes.

“You’re really not spiraling,” he says.

“Not when you’re here,” I tell him, and it’s the closest I’ve ever come to explaining what he does to me. “You keep me in the present. I don’t… want to bleed it out when you’re around. I just want to stay in it.”

Nate’s throat works around whatever he’s swallowing down, and his hands lift, settling on my shoulders, wet fingers curling slightly. Another realization hits me then: he’s the first person to touch my skin like this. And that… doesn’t freak me out the way I know it should.

I let the water run over both of us for another minute, washing away the last physical traces of the night, but the rest of it is still there—in the way our bodies are turned toward each other, in the words I didn’t take back, in the fact that I don’t want to.

By the time I’m done, the steam’s thick enough that the walls are dripping. I lean in, pressing my mouth to his—slower this time, no blood, no desperation, just a steady kiss that seals something I didn’t even know I was still keeping to myself.

He kisses me back, one hand coming up to rest at the side of my neck, fingers curling and it makes me feel like maybe letting him in won’t kill me.

But even if it does, I think I’ve already decided I’d rather go out this way.

Nate

Sageismakingsomeoffhand joke about Cole and his inability to pull, but my gaze is fixed on the quad where my lover is walking like it’s his personal runway.

He’s in a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, tucked into tailored slacks that fit just right—because of course they do. The soft brown of his hair catching in the sunlight, looking too neat when I know exactly how it looks when I fist it in my hands, and when I pull his head back to bare his throat. Too perfect for someone who’s wrecked me in every way that counts.

And those eyes. Christ.

No one else sees them the way I do. No one else knows how that cold, calculating glint melts when I whisper his name, or when I give him every piece of me without holding back. No one else knows how gorgeous he is when he stops pretending, when he lets me see the parts of him no one else gets to touch.

No one else has watched Liam Callahan come undone.