Page 40 of Cruel When He Smiles

That earns me a sharper glance. “Why?”

“Because I like it,” I say simply, keeping my tone light. “Even when it’s laced with sarcasm and venom. Which, to be fair, is always.”

He looks away again, his jaw working, and I know he’s trying to decide how much he’s willing to give me. I don’t press or move, but I sit in the silence with him, the way someone did for me back when my own nightmares were running the show.

“I know why you’re angry,” I say after a moment. “I’d be angry, too.”

He stiffens. “You don’t know shit.”

“You’re right,” I agree without flinching. “I don’t know everything. But I do know what it feels like to wake up drowning in a memory and find someone standing over you. I know how much it makes you want to crawl back inside your skin and never let anyone see it again.”

His breath catches, and I pretend not to notice as I lean back against the bench. “You don’t need to talk about it. You don’t even need to acknowledge it. I’m not here to rip it open, but I am here to tell you that you don’t have to weaponize yourself every time someone touches a nerve.”

He finally turns to me fully, eyes narrowed, voice low and shaking with contained rage. “Don’t pretend you give a shit.”

I meet his gaze without blinking. “I don’t pretend, Pup.”

He flinches, and I don’t press the nickname. He squirms in his seat, staring at the grass now, shoulders slowly losing some of that rigidity. “I don’t need your help.”

“I know.” I nod again. “But I’m offering it anyway.”

His voice cracks when he speaks next. “Why?”

Because I see you.

Because you’re the only person on this campus who doesn’t fall at my feet, and manages to haunt my thoughts when I’m with someone else.

Because I want to dig my fingers into the spine of your anger and trace every cracked bone until I understand how you survived.

Because I want to replace the cracks someone else made with my own.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I say, “Because I’ve been where you are and nobody pulled me out. I still resent them for it.”

After a while, Coach blows the whistle again and shouts for everyone to reset drills. I stand, brushing off my shorts, and offer him a hand. I don’t expect him to take it, but I want him to see that I’m not pushing him anymore. That I’m just holding the space.

He stares at the hand, then up at me; those pretty green eyes looking so conflicted. He doesn’t take it, but he doesn’t shove it away either.

Progress.

I drop my hand and walk back onto the field without another word. He’ll follow when he’s ready. And when he does, I’ll be waiting—not as the Liam he’s learned to hate, but as the one who’s starting to understand that control doesn’t always come from pressure.

Sometimes it comes from patience, and I’ve got plenty of that to spare.

Nate

Istayonthefield long after the others have left. That silence—the hollow kind that sinks in your chest and makes you aware of your own heartbeat—is the only thing currently keeping me upright.

Sage hasn’t said more than five words to me in three days, but he’s been off for longer than that. It’s in the way he lingers outside on the front steps with his phone in hand and his jaw clenched. I’ve asked if he’s okay. He said he was tired. That was it and nothing else. Now I don’t know where I stand.

I feel stupid for how much it’s bothering me. The distance, how he won’t meet my eyes when I ask if something happened, feels worse than yelling ever could. Worse than the last time we fought. Because this isn’t anger, this is indifference. This is him not trusting me enough to tell me what’s wrong.

I can’t tell ifIdid something wrong or if he’s just done pretending I matter.

I jog to midfield and start running drills with the ball, not caring about form or speed, or anything that would make Coach Bryant proud. My movements are messier than they should be, arms tense, chest tight, breath too loud in my ears.

Sweat breaks across my forehead before I’ve even made it halfway through, and I don’t stop because I know what’ll happen if I do. The thoughts will catch up. The grief I’m not allowed to feel will crush my throat closed.

I need someone to tell me this isn’t all in my head. That I haven’t lost my grip on everything I thought I had. That I’m not the one breaking apart.