Page 76 of Cruel When He Smiles

“Didn’t say you did.” His voice is quiet. “But whatever’s going on with you? You’re carrying it alone. And the more you try to convince everyone you’re fine, the more you push the people who’d bleed for you out of reach.”

My hands drop into my lap, fingers digging into my palms. “I didn’t ask anyone to bleed for me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies. “They were willing to. Sage was willing to, you knew that. And you shut him out.”

“I didn’t shut him out.” My voice cracks.

Killian doesn’t argue as he watches me, a stillness in his eyes that makes me want to look away. “You can be mad,” he says. “You can be hurt, but if you want to fix it—really fix it—you have to start from a place of honesty. Otherwise, you’re just throwing bricks at each other from opposite sides of the wall.”

I nod slowly, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “Why are you even telling me this?” I ask. “You don’t even like me.”

He shrugs again. “Doesn’t mean I don’t see you. Your friendship isn’t broken, Carter, but it’s definitely cracked. Get ahead of the fracture before it runs deeper.”

We sit in silence for a few seconds longer. Then Killian offers a nod, gets up, and walks away, his back cutting through the breeze like he never intended to stay long.

I think of Sage and the way we always seemed to understand each other without saying a word. I think about the trust thatused to feel unshakable, the bond that made everyone else seem irrelevant.

And I think about how fast it all cracked.

I think about the way Sage looked at me when I walked away. There was hurt in his eyes, yeah, but there was also regret.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to fix it either. Maybe I walked away too fast. Maybe I didn’t let him speak the truth because I was too angry, too betrayed, and too tired of always being the one who held the door open while everyone else decided if they wanted to walk through it.

Maybe it’s not about forgiving. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending I’m not hurt.

And maybe it’s time I stopped expecting Sage to read my mind when I’ve done everything possible to keep him out of it.

Nate

Sage’sfreeperiodfallsbetween Media Theory and Production Workshop, which means I know where he’ll be. I’ve known him long enough to predict him better than anyone. He always sits near the far corner window where the sun doesn’t hit his laptop screen and the outlet is just close enough to keep him in that stupid slouch he calls posture.

He keeps his earbuds in to avoid interruptions, but he’s never really been someone people avoid.

I stand at the edge of the room for longer than I should, staring at the back of his head like I’m trying to summon the courage to be a better version of myself, but nothing comes. No epiphany, no strength, no sudden rise of bravery. Just that same tightness in my throat that never really goes away lately.

I hesitate for maybe three seconds before walking over.

His eyes flick up when I move into his line of sight, and his fingers still on the keyboard when he sees me. He pulls hisearbuds out but doesn’t say anything as he watches me. His silence isn’t cold, but it’s not warm either.

I drop in the seat next to him, but don’t say anything right away or look at him. The silence between us stretches longer than it should. I hate it. I hate the way I don’t know how to start. I hate that I have to explain myself at all.

He waits, like he’s done this before—like he knows better than to push when I’m still fighting myself to speak.

I finally exhale and say, “I was a dick.”

His voice is sharper than I expected when he says, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I mutter and roll my eyes, but don’t lift my head.

There’s a beat, then his tone turns smug. “Did I? Because it almost sounded like an apology.”

“I hate you,” I grumble, tipping my head back.

“I know,” he says easily, and I hate that he says it like it’s a fact. Like it’s something he’s used to.

My throat works around the guilt stuck there. “Look… I don’t trust him, alright? Istilldon’t trust him. But that doesn’t mean I had the right to take it out on you.”

When I finally look at him, his expression is unreadable for a second. Then his voice lowers. “What’s really going on with you?”