Page 45 of Cruel When He Smiles

I step back a fraction, just enough to release the grip on his neck, but I let my fingers trail down his arm to keep that tether between us intact.

“And then you’re going to bed,” I say. “Not to lie there thinking. Not to scroll through your phone until you spiral again. You’re going to lie down, close your eyes, and sleep. Can you do that for me, Pup?”

He stares at me like he’s not sure if I’m serious or playing a game, but I hold his gaze until he lets out a slow, long exhale and nods. It’s not quite surrender, but it’s a step in that direction.

His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, “And if I can’t sleep?”

I let the corner of my mouth twitch with a hint of a smile. “Then you text me,” I say. “Doesn’t matter what time. You don’t need to say much. Just let me know, and I’ll talk you down.”

He blinks, and for a second, I think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t. He nods once; it’s jerky and still uncertain, though.

“Okay,” he says in a soft voice. “Okay… I can do that.” Then he glances toward his car, but I don’t move until he does, and I don’t break the gaze until he turns away and starts walking.

He looks back like he half expects me to call him back, but I won’t. There’s a frown on his face, but then he shakes his head and gets into his car—soaked practice uniform and all.

And when I’m sure he’s out of sight, the smile breaks.

Not gentle.

Not amused.

Feral.

It spreads slowly, curling at the corners of my mouth until I feel it in my teeth. My shoulders relax, and I exhale through my nose, head tilting back as I let the grin bloom without restraint.

Because I didn’t need a kiss tonight, that wasn’t the win. The win was how he broke apart in my arms and didn’t run. The win was the way he looked at me with tears in his eyes and didn’t flinch when I touched him. The win was that voice—wrecked and tired—asking mewhy. Demanding to understand why I gave a damn, then falling apart when I answered.

But the real victory?

He listened when I told him what to do. He listened and didn’t fight it, even if his pride wanted to. He responded how I knew he would—to the right kind of tone, the right kind of control. Soft and steady with no threats.

He’s pliable under it. Not weak, never that. But open and receptive in the way only people who’ve never felt safe learn to be when they finally taste it for the first time.

And now that I’ve found the lever, I’m going to wedge it deeper every time he tries to close it again. Not to break him, but to shape him.

It’s not about ownership. It’s about knowing I’m the one who gets through to him. The one who sees him stripped of his fronts and his fire. The one who doesn’t need to raise his voice to command his attention. The one he ran to after tonight, needing something he didn’t know how to name.

All while still thinking he made those decisions himself.

I don’t have to chase him; he’s already circling back, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. And when he does—when he finally admits that the tension between us isn’t just pain or resentment or buried trauma—I’ll be right where I’ve always been.

Waiting. Watching.

Patient as sin.

I walk into the Sin Bin with that same twisted little smirk still playing across my lips. The house buzzes around me, the familiar chaos barely reaching past the ringing in my ears.

I shut the front door and let the muffled chaos of the kitchen carry on without me. Someone’s blasting music from the living room, Damien maybe, and there’s the usual rattle of voices from upstairs. Laughter. Arguing. Someone yelling at Thorn to stop walking around without boxers again.

I climb the stairs two at a time, pushing open my bedroom door without turning on the lights. The window’s cracked open enough to let the breeze in. My shower’s a blur—steam, water, the smell of cedar and clean slate. I wash away the salt and sweat, but nothing washes away the imprint of Nate’s body trembling in my arms or how his lips parted against mine like he’d been holding in that breath for years.

The water scalds the edge of my thoughts clean. I stand under the stream longer than I need to, letting the heat work its way down my spine, wishing it could cauterize the parts of me that still feel too much when I look at him.

I towel off, pull on gray sweatpants and a black tank, and drag the towel over my hair. I’ve barely taken a step when a voice cuts through the haze.

“You’re in your head.”

My head snaps toward the corner of the room on instinct, expecting a threat. But it’s not a threat. Not exactly.