Page 38 of Cruel When He Smiles

And for a second, I wonder if he’s going to weaponize this. If he’s going to file it away like the rest of my reactions. A new secret. A new crack in the armor he loves to peel apart.

…but he doesn’t.

“Don’t,” Liam says, the moment I try to turn away. His thumb lifts, brushes under my eye before I even knew there were tears there. “Don’t do that. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a normal response to night terrors.”

I shake my head, my throat burning. “Thanks,” I say after a minute. “For waking me up.”

He nods, stands and walks back to his bed. I track him with my eyes, still fighting the tremors running through me. He slips under the blanket, back to me now, and pulls it up to his shoulders without a word.

It only hits me then that he’s giving me privacy.

Liam

I’minthebackof the bus, slouched against the window with one foot propped on the seat in front of me, phone in my hand and unread messages blinking on the screen. Music plays through one earbud, low enough that I can still hear the conversations going on around me—mostly tired laughter and too-loud banter from the front of the bus where Coach Bryant pretends not to care how rowdy we get after a win.

Everyone’s glowing from it. Everyone except Nate.

He hasn’t spoken to me once since he thanked me last night. Not even a glance or a muttered insult. He got on the bus without waiting for me, sat across the aisle two rows ahead, close enough that I could see the back of his head but far enough to make it clear that I wasn’t invited into his world today.

He’s got his hoodie pulled up, ear buds in, body turned just slightly toward the window. It’s clearly a defensive posture. I know it because I’ve worn it before—hell, I built that stance brick by brick the year everything in my life went to shit.

He’s hiding, but it’s not from the team. It’s from me.

And maybe that’s fair. Perhaps I crossed a line last night and pressed too hard when I should’ve walked away. Maybe I touched something I didn’t understand.

But the thing is, I understand it too well. I just didn’t expect to see it reflected back from him with that kind of clarity. I didn’t expect the sound of his scream to slice through my sleep like a blade and drag me across a memory I buried under years of silence and therapy I never committed to.

I get it. I do.

I haven’t had a night terror since I was thirteen years old. The kind that locks your limbs down and buries you in memory until it feels real again. That last one came just before everything went to hell. I’d woken up gasping, drenched in sweat, nails digging into my palms. My father had been yelling from the hallway, furious that I hadn’t gotten up for my morning run. My mother had already left for her practice. No one asked why my knuckles were bleeding.

And then, four years later, they were dead, and I was already living in the hands of someone far worse. Someone who doesn’t yell, either. Who taught me silence could be sharper than a scream. The one person I trust above anyone else. The one person who knows me better than I know myself.

My brother.

I learned the truth about my bloodline before I could legally drink, and I learned exactly how to keep it hidden. Not just from them, but from everyone. That’s the game; that’s always been the game. Keep the mask on. Keep the truth buried. Let the world see what you want them to, and never what you don’t.

So, yeah, I get it. I understand how it feels to wake up humiliated and exposed, with the past clawing at your throat, and someone else seeing too much. I understand the instinct to shut down, shut out, and pretend none of it touched you.

But I also know how to use it.

Nate gave me something last night that he shouldn’t have. A door, a key, and a crack wide enough to wedge my hand in and pry.

He responds to my voice.

I didn’t fully realize it until last night—how it settles him when I speak in that soft, low cadence. When I use words the way surgeons use scalpels. Not cutting, but precise and controlled. Dominant, without ever needing to raise the volume.

He responds to that and falls into it, even when he’s fighting me, part of him wants it.Needsit.

That’s what I’m going to use. Not to hurt him—well, not in the obvious ways. But in the ways that soften the edges first. The ways that crawl into your head and settle beneath the skin until you don’t know where your thoughts end and someone else’s control begins.

I don’t want him scared of me, I want him disarmed by me. I want him to feel safe in the palm of my hand, unaware of how tightly my fingers are curled around his throat until it’s too late to run.

It takes patience and precision. Two things I’m better at than most people give me credit for.

So, when I get home, I shower. I scrub my hands raw and stand under the heat until the sting at my side reminds me my stitches are still healing. Then I towel off, change into sweats, sit on the edge of my bed with the phone in my hand, and break my own rule. I open his contact—still saved under “Pup” with no shame—and type.

Me: You okay?