The villa didn't sleep.
It never really did—but tonight, the silence felt different.
Not empty.
Heavy.
Smyle lay on his side, staring at the faint glow of the hallway light slipping under his door. He hadn't changed positions in over an hour. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood on white fabric. Saw the way Rayden had staggered—just a little. Enough to notice.
Enough to scare him.
He sighed quietly and rolled onto his back.
Get a grip, he told himself.
This isn't your problem.
But his body didn't listen.
After a moment, Smyle sat up, feet touching the cold floor. He hesitated only once before standing and opening the door.
The hallway was quiet.
Rayden's door, at the end of the corridor, was slightly open.
Light spilled out.
Smyle frowned.
Careful, he padded forward and knocked lightly.
No answer.
He pushed the door open.
Rayden sat on the edge of the bed, shirt discarded, torso bare, shoulders tense. The bandage Smyle had tied earlier was loosened, blood seeping faintly through the gauze. One hand braced against the mattress, the other gripping fresh medical tape.
He was trying to do it himself.
Badly.
Smyle didn't say anything at first. He just crossed the room, took the tape from Rayden's hand, and placed it gently on the bedside table.
Rayden stiffened.
"You should be sleeping," he said without turning.
"You should stop pretending you don't need help," Smyle replied quietly.
Rayden glanced at him then—eyes sharp, alert—until they softened just a fraction.
"I told you," Rayden said. "I can handle it."
Smyle reached for the bandage anyway. "You're bleeding through."
Silence stretched.
Then Rayden exhaled and leaned back slightly, giving permission without saying the word.
Smyle swallowed and focused.
He removed the old gauze slowly, carefully. His hands were steady now—not like earlier. The wound was clean, stitched, but angry. Too fresh. Too real.
"You came back late," Smyle said softly.
Rayden didn't answer.
Smyle cleaned the area, replaced the gauze, retied the bandage with practiced care.
"I waited," Smyle added, not accusing. Just stating a fact.
"I know."
That made Smyle pause.
Rayden's voice wasn't dismissive. It was… aware.
"You didn't have to," Rayden continued. "I would've been fine."
Smyle tied the knot, then sat back on his heels.
"That's not how that works," he said.
Rayden studied him for a long moment. "How does it work, then?"
Smyle shrugged. "When someone disappears into something dangerous… and comes back hurt… you worry."
Rayden's jaw tightened. "Worry is inefficient."
Smyle snorted quietly. "So is bleeding at three in the morning."
That earned him a short breath of a laugh—barely there, but real.
They sat in silence after that.
Not awkward.
Not tense.
Just… present.
Rayden broke it first.
"You didn't ask what happened."
Smyle looked up. "You'd tell me if you wanted to."
Rayden considered that.
"You don't push," he said.
"I know when to," Smyle replied. "This wasn't one of those times."
Rayden leaned back slightly, resting his weight on his hands. The movement pulled at the wound, and he winced—fast, controlled.
Smyle noticed anyway.
"You should lie down," he said.
Rayden raised an eyebrow. "Giving orders now?"
Smyle met his gaze evenly. "Medical advice."
Another pause.
Then Rayden lay back, slowly, carefully. Smyle stood and pulled the blanket up without thinking—just enough to cover his side, not enough to trap him.
Their hands brushed.
Smyle froze.
Rayden didn't pull away.
For a second—just a second—the air shifted.
Not romantic.
Not charged.
Just something fragile.
Smyle withdrew his hand first.
"I'll go," he said, standing. "You should rest."
Rayden watched him move toward the door.
"…Smyle."
He turned.
"You don't need to stay alert for me," Rayden said quietly. "That's not part of the contract."
Smyle considered that.
Then he replied, just as quietly,
"I know."
He paused at the door.
"But some things don't need to be."
Rayden didn't stop him.
But long after Smyle's footsteps faded, Rayden stayed awake—staring at the ceiling, chest tight, mind louder than any gunshot.
Because violence had never shaken him like kindness did.
MORNING DIDN'T ANNOUNCE ITSELF.
It slipped in gently—thin sunlight crawling across marble floors, brushing the edges of furniture like it didn't want to wake anyone.
Smyle woke before his alarm.
That alone told him something was wrong.
He lay still for a moment, listening.
No shouting.
No raised voices.
No sharp footsteps.
Just… calm.
Too calm.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, then glanced at the time.
7:18 a.m.
He was already late by normal standards—but this wasn't normal anymore.
Smyle dragged himself out of bed and padded toward the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. As he stared at his reflection, his thoughts drifted back to the night before.
The blood.
The bandage.
Rayden's silence.
He pressed his lips together.
Don't overthink it, he told himself.
You helped. That's all.
When he stepped into the hallway, he froze.
Rayden was already up.
Dressed.
Clean.
Composed.
Sitting at the dining table with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee untouched beside it.
Like nothing had happened.
Smyle frowned. "You're supposed to be resting."
Rayden glanced up. "Good morning."
"That's not an answer."
Rayden set the tablet aside. "I am resting."
"You're literally working."
Rayden tilted his head slightly. "Relative term."
Smyle sighed and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a mug. "You reopened the wound."
"No."
"You loosened the bandage."
Rayden's lips curved faintly. "You noticed."
"I'm not blind," Smyle muttered, pouring himself coffee.
They sat in silence for a few seconds.
Not awkward.
Just… careful.
Rayden spoke first. "You didn't sleep much."
Smyle shrugged. "Neither did you."
Rayden didn't deny it.
Smyle took a sip, then glanced at Rayden's side. The bandage was clean. Tight. Properly secured.
"You redid it," Smyle said.
"Yes."
"…Properly?"
Rayden met his eyes. "Yes."
Smyle nodded, oddly relieved.
Another quiet stretch.
Then Rayden said, "I'm driving you today."
Smyle nearly choked on his coffee. "Again?"
"Yes."
"I can go alone."
"You can," Rayden agreed calmly. "You won't."
Smyle glared at him. "You're too confident for someone who got stitched up last night."
Rayden smirked. "You're too bold for someone who worries this much."
Smyle looked away. "…I don't worry."
Rayden didn't push it.
THE DRIVE
The car felt different today.
Not tense.
Not heavy.
Just… quiet.
Smyle sat in the back seat, backpack beside him, staring out the window. Rayden sat next to him this time—not across.
Close enough to feel presence.
Far enough not to touch.
Smyle yawned, trying to hide it.
Rayden noticed anyway.
"You'll fall asleep again," he said.
Smyle scoffed. "No chance."
Five minutes later, his head tipped sideways.
He caught himself just in time, straightening abruptly. "I'm awake."
Rayden didn't comment.
The road hummed softly beneath them.
Smyle's eyes burned.
Without realizing it, he shifted—just slightly—until his shoulder brushed Rayden's arm.
He stiffened.
Rayden didn't move away.
Another minute passed.
Smyle exhaled slowly and leaned his head—carefully—against Rayden's shoulder.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Rayden's body tensed for half a second.
Then relaxed.
He didn't wrap an arm around Smyle.
Didn't pull him closer.
He just… stayed.
The driver kept his eyes forward.
Smyle murmured, half-asleep, "This doesn't count as anything."
Rayden replied softly, "I know."
Smyle slept anyway.