Page 33 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Liam

The first thing I notice when we walk back into the house is the quiet shift in Nate’s energy. It happened after I started cleaning him up. His body moves differently—looser through the shoulders, softer in the way his fingers brush against his own wrist when he thinks I’m not looking.

His head is still down, lashes low as he steps over the threshold into the kitchen, but there’s no tension winding through his frame anymore.

It’s been replaced with something calmer.

Not peace, I don’t think Nate does peace.

But something closer to surrender, and not the pathetic kind either—the kind born of relief.

He hasn’t spoken much since I helped him back into his boardshorts, only muttering a rough “thanks.” He didn’t even fight when I told him to drink the water I handed him. Just swallowed half the glass and leaned back against the kitchen counter like his bones had finally stopped buzzing.

Now, as I open the fridge and pull out some of the pre-made pasta Killian left out, I glance over and watch him tilt his head to the side, eyes following the movement of my hands.

“You hungry? We don’t have to head outside to the others if you’d rather stay here,” I say in a low tone. I don’t want to startle him, but I also want to gauge how far under he still is.

He shrugs, then nods once. “Yeah, actually. And I appreciate that.”

That surprises me. Nate doesn’t usually eat—he picks, maybe, drinks water, but he doesn’t sit and eat like a normal person. Today he does.

I throw the pasta in the microwave and lean against the counter, watching him as he sits in one of the chairs, then stretches his arms over his head and lets out a soft groan, back arching just enough to remind me what I did to him less than ten minutes ago.

He catches me watching and grins. Grins . “Fuck me senseless, now you’re gonna feed me too?” he asks, teasing, the bite in his tone softened by the faint blush still lingering along his throat.

“If you want me to,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll have to ask nicely.”

“Don’t push it, Callahan.”

But he’s smiling, and it isn’t forced. It’s crooked and tired, but real—that’s what gets to me. He’d usually be spiraling, lashing out, or shutting down. That’s what happens when you fuck someone so deep, they forget how to breathe.

But Nate’s doing the opposite. He’s softer, warmer, and… worse—he’s obedient. Not in a hollow way, but in a way that makes my chest itch.

The microwave beeps, and I pull the container out, tossing two forks into it before walking over and placing it in front of him. I sit beside him and watch as he starts eating without hesitation.

A few bites in, he glances at me sideways. “Is this your version of aftercare?”

“No, Pup. This is maintenance. You get aftercare when you earn it.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue as he keeps eating. A moment later, Killian walks in, shirtless and damp from the pool, hair pushed back from his forehead. He raises a brow when he sees us at the table, then saunters toward the fridge.

“Look at this domestic shit,” Killian drawls. “Should I be worried you’re going to move him in?”

“Fuck off, King,” Nate mumbles through a mouthful of pasta, and it makes my brother pause mid-grab.

He straightens, stares at Nate like he’s just sprouted a second head, then glances at me. I don’t say a word. I just keep chewing. “Did he just joke with me?” Killian asks, eyes narrowing like he’s genuinely confused.

“Sounds like it.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He grabs a bottle of water and pops the cap, tilting it toward Nate. “That smile suits you better than your attitude did earlier.”

Nate flips him off. “Maybe you bring out the worst in me.”

Killian huffs, not quite a laugh, but close. “You should see what I bring out in Liam.”

Nate’s head whips toward me in alarm, a spark of jealousy rising fast before he realizes Killian’s just being a shit. His whole face twists. “Gross.”

My brother smirks. “You asked.”

And fuck me, the grin Killian throws my way could cut glass. He takes a long drink, salutes us with the bottle, and heads out to the patio again.

I stay silent, watching the residual glow on Nate’s face, the lightness in his expression. He looks good. A little wrecked, sure, but calm. Clear. And I know it’s because I gave him exactly what he asked for. I gave him something solid to cling to when everything else was slipping away.

Then the back sliding door to the patio opens again, and Roman’s voice cuts across the noise, too loud and too casual. “Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.”

Eli’s laugh follows. “Could you have been a bit louder? We couldn’t hear you over the music.”

Nate goes still, and my gaze swings to the door, where Luca Devereaux is looking far too fucking pleased with himself.

I barely hear Nate inhale, but I feel it. His presence shifts again—air sucked out of the room in an instant. His knuckles go white around the fork before it clatters against the plastic container.

Nate’s already pushing his chair back, standing too fast. His face has gone pale, throat working around something he can’t seem to swallow.

“I need to go,” he says, voice tight. “I can’t stay here.”

“No.”

“I can’t—”

“Nate. Eyes on me.” My voice cuts clean through his rising panic. He stops, eyes wide, the flush from earlier draining fast. “You can’t run every time someone reminds you you’re not the center of their world.”

His jaw locks. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it? That he smiled? That you didn’t know because no one owed you the truth?”

That hits. I see it in the way he flinches. He looks away, his breathing shallow now. My voice softens, but I don’t let go of the weight behind it.

“You already gave yourself to me today. Don’t cheapen it by acting like a kicked dog because someone else moved on.”

He turns his face back toward me—wounded, defiant. “It’s not about Sage moving on. It’s that I didn’t matter enough to be told.”

I nod. “And that hurts. I get it. But don’t give them more power by falling apart in front of them.”

His lip trembles. “Then what the fuck do I do?”

“You go home, you take a long shower. You sit on your bed and drink the water I know you haven’t had enough of today. And then you text me.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I’m giving you structure, Pup. I’m telling you what to do,” I say, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. “I helped you earlier, don’t you want me to help you again?”

Nate looks at me, and I know I’ve already gotten through to him. He’s stubborn, so he’ll fight my words, but the submission wins out in the end.

“Okay,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’ll go. I’ll text.”

“Good boy.”

His throat works around the praise like it hurts.

But his eyes—god, those gorgeous green eyes—they soften when I say it.

He lets go of the air trapped in his chest and squeezes my hand once before stepping back, grabbing his phone off the counter, and heading for the front door without saying goodbye to anyone.

Killian peeks in from the sliding door, watching him go. He raises a brow at me, but I don’t respond. Instead, I sit there and wait.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes.

Pup: Home. Drank water. Shower next.

I smile before setting my phone facedown on the table.

Good boy.