Page 160 of Cruel When He Smiles

I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want logic, I want Nate. My jaw tightens, and I push forward, but Killian doesn’t step back. Instead, he reaches up, smooth and practiced, and wraps his hand around my throat before pushing me against the front door.

The pressure isn’t enough to hurt, but it’s enough to make my breath hitch, to force my focus somewhere other than the chaosin my chest. His thumb presses just under my jaw, and his eyes lock on mine.

“Breathe, little brother,” he says, quiet enough that only I can hear it.

It’s the same move we’ve used on each other since we were thirteen, the only thing that ever works when one of us is spiraling too fast to think. It’s not about dominance, not really—it’s about control, the reminder that neither of us has to let the storm win if we don’t want it to.

I feel the edge of my rage start to dull under the weight of his hand. My pulse slows, my breathing evens out, and the sharpness in my thoughts starts to smooth. I’m not happy about it, but I let it happen because he’s right—walking in there like I was two minutes ago would’ve made things worse.

From the corner of my eye, I catch movement. The house isn’t empty. Roman’s leaning in the doorway to the living room, Ryan’s half-sitting on the bottom step, and I’m willing to bet more eyes are on us from places I can’t see. It doesn’t matter. This isn’t for them.

I exhale slowly, the sound shaky but controlled, and Killian feels it. His grip doesn’t loosen yet, not until I nod once.

“There you go,” he murmurs, his voice soft enough now that it almost feels like praise. “Now, you can go.”

When he lets go, I don’t waste another second. I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the fact that I can still feel eyes on me from the living room. I don’t care. My focus is already locked ahead.

I push my bedroom door open, and the sight stops me for a second. Nate’s curled up on the bed, knees drawn up, wearing nothing but one of my button-down shirts. It swallows him, the sleeves hanging past his hands. His hair is damp, strands clinging to his forehead like he’s just stepped out of the shower.

He’s not looking at anything. His eyes are wide, fixed somewhere past my shoulder, but he’s not fully here.

I quietly shut the door behind me and cross the room without saying anything at first. My chest tightens at how small he looks, folded into himself on my bed. I sink down beside him and reach out, my fingers brushing over the side of his face.

“Nate,” I say, soft enough that it barely carries. No response from him, so I try again. “Pup, I’m here.”

His eyes flicker once, but they still don’t meet mine.

I slide my arms under him and lift him into my lap, settling back against the headboard with him pressed against me. He’s tense, but he doesn’t fight it. My hand moves in slow circles over his back, the other cradling the side of his head.

That's when I notice the sharp smell of my cologne on him.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You’re safe. Whatever happened, you’re safe here with me.”

He’s still silent, but I feel the faintest shiver run through him. I tilt my head, pressing my mouth to his temple. “Talk to me, baby. I need to hear your voice,” I coax. “You don’t have to tell me everything, just… let me hear you.”

Nothing.

I let the silence stretch for a moment, then press another kiss to his hair. “You’ve got my shirt on,” I say quietly. “Looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

His breath hitches, so small I almost miss it. My hand moves up into his damp hair, combing through it slowly, careful not to snag. “Your hair’s still wet,” I murmur. “Did you shower here?”

A pause, then the tiniest nod against my shoulder.

“Good,” I say, my voice low and steady. I tilt his chin just enough that I can see his face, his eyes still wide but finally meeting mine. “You smell like me. Did you miss me?”

Another tiny nod. “Needed you.” He says it in such a small voice that my heart fucking shatters.

I swallow my anger down and hold him closer. “I’ll get you warm, okay? Just stay right here.”

He doesn’t look away this time, and that’s enough for now. My hand keeps moving through his hair, each slow pass meant to anchor him here, with me, until I can pull him back the rest of the way.

I want to press him. I want to find out who was at that stadium, why his phone was off, and why he’s wearing my shirt like it’s armor and drowning in my scent.

But I’ve been here before—in different rooms, with different people—and I know sometimes the fastest way to get answers is to give someone the space to take their time.

So, I just sit there, close enough that he feels the heat of me, quiet enough that he knows I’m not going anywhere.

Nate