Page 31 of Cruel When He Smiles

Dr. Ellis tilts her head. “Want to elaborate on that?”

“No.”

Liam’s mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, not really, but it’s something, and it digs its teeth into my spine. I refuse to look at him directly. Instead, I turn to Dr. Ellis and sit up straighter.

“I’m here. I’m showing up. Isn’t that the point?”

She nods slowly. “It’s part of the point, yes. But being here physically and being engaged mentally are two different things.”

I want to scream. I want to grab the chair, throw it across the room, and demand to know how the hell I’m supposed to engage when the guy next to me is the reason I’m here in the first place. Instead, I stay still, bite the inside of my cheek and breathe in through my nose.

“What about you, Liam?” Dr. Ellis asks.

Liam lifts his head slowly and smiles. Polite, perfect, and dead behind the eyes.

“I’m great,” he says. “Really enjoying the process.”

I let out a sharp breath through my nose, something between a laugh and a growl.

Dr. Ellis turns to me. “Problem?”

“No,” I say through my teeth.

The rest of the session drags. I don’t talk. Liam does only when asked. Dr. Ellis gives us a worksheet, another emotional inventory that I complete with bullshit. I write “neutral” on everything. When it asks how I handle anger, I write “I go for a run.” When it asks if I feel misunderstood, I leave it blank.

Liam hands his in with a smile while Dr. Ellis thanks us both and says she’s proud of the work we’re doing.

I nearly choke.

We walk out of the office at the same time. Not together, not even side by side. But close enough that our shoulders almost touch before I veer to the left, heading down the stairwell.

“You don’t have to act like I’m a ghost,” Liam says casually behind me.

I don’t respond. I just keep walking, knowing he’s watching me the whole way down. I can feel it. The weight of his gaze. The tension of a wire stretched tight between us, just waiting for one of us to tug again.

But every time I close my eyes, I can still feel his breath on my cheek. I can still hear that voice—the one he used when he told me I was easy for him. The one that made me wish he’d repeat it; crueler, louder, until I believed it.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and exhale.

No more.

No more chasing. No more letting him set the tempo. He wants to be cold? Fine. I can be colder. I can stop reacting. I can turn him into a ghost. He thinks I’m weak because I feel too much?

Then he’s never seen what happens when I stop feeling anything at all.

Liam

Theguy’snamedoesn’tmatter.

He’s got dark hair, a lean frame, and the kind of clingy, anxious energy that practically screamsvalidate me. He talks too much, punctuates every sentence with a nervous laugh that catches in his throat, and glances at my mouth like he’s imagining what it would feel like if I told him to open wide and not speak again.

I don’t mind.

I make it easier.

A slight tilt of my head. A low chuckle timed to sync with his anxiety. A casual compliment about the way his handwriting curves—vulnerable boys eat that shit up. People want to be noticed. I’ve built my entire academic career on knowing how to make them feel seen.

We’re the last ones left in the seminar room. Everyone else packed up and left twenty minutes ago, but we’re still here under the flimsy pretense of comparing notes. He’s leaning closer now,pen forgotten, posture tense, and hands curled against the edge of the desk like he’s holding himself back from begging.