The villa learned their rhythm faster than they did.
Morning came and went without announcements now. No schedules spoken aloud. No reminders. Things simply… happened.
Smyle noticed it first in the smallest ways.
The coffee machine already warm when he entered the kitchen.
The mug he liked—his mug—clean and waiting near the sink.
The blinds in the study tilted just enough to soften the light, because Rayden knew Smyle hated glare when he read.
None of it was dramatic.
That was the problem.
Smyle sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone, half-aware of Rayden moving behind him. Papers shuffled. A drawer opened. Footsteps paused.
A plate slid onto the counter.
Toast. Fruit. Something warm.
Smyle frowned. "I didn't ask."
Rayden didn't look at him. "You skip breakfast when you're distracted."
Smyle opened his mouth to argue—then closed it.
Because it was true.
He picked up a piece of fruit, turning it slowly between his fingers.
"…You're not supposed to know that."
Rayden finally glanced over. "I observe."
"That's creepy."
Rayden hummed. "Effective."
Smyle snorted despite himself.
Silence settled again—but not the heavy kind. This one was almost… comfortable. Dangerous in its ease.
Later, when Smyle returned from university, the house was quieter than usual.
No guards visible inside. No calls echoing down hallways. Just the faint sound of water.
The shower.
Smyle hesitated in the hallway, backpack still slung over one shoulder. He didn't know why his steps slowed. Why he waited.
When the bathroom door finally opened, steam curled into the hall. Rayden stepped out, towel around his neck, hair damp, sleeves of his shirt rolled as he buttoned it absently.
He paused when he saw Smyle.
"You're home early."
Smyle shrugged. "Lecture got cancelled."
Rayden nodded once. "Did you eat?"
Smyle stared. "You too now?"
Rayden's lips twitched. "Apparently."
Smyle dropped his bag near the wall. "There's leftovers. I'll handle it."
Rayden didn't move.
"You don't have to," he said.
Smyle met his eyes. "I know."
That was new.
He walked past Rayden toward the kitchen, not missing the way Rayden turned slightly—like he'd almost followed. Almost.
Dinner was quiet.
Not tense. Not awkward.
Just… shared.
They didn't talk much. They didn't need to. The sound of cutlery, the soft hum of the lights, the world reduced to a small, controlled space.
At some point, Smyle realized something unsettling.
He wasn't counting the days anymore.
The contract—two years—used to sit heavy in his mind, a ticking clock.
Now it felt… distant. Blurred.
That scared him.
Later that night, Smyle sat on the couch, knees tucked under him, laptop open but forgotten. Rayden stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, voice low.
"…No. Handle it tomorrow."
Pause.
"Yes. I said tomorrow."
He ended the call and turned.
Smyle looked up. "Everything okay?"
Rayden hesitated.
Just a second too long.
"Yes," he said.
Smyle studied him. "You always say that."
Rayden walked closer, stopping a careful distance away. "And you always pretend you believe it."
Smyle laughed softly. "Fair."
Another silence.
Then, without really thinking, Smyle asked—
"If this was real…"
Rayden stilled.
Smyle swallowed but continued, voice quiet.
"If this marriage was real… would it look different?"
The question hung between them.
Not accusing.
Not hopeful.
Just… curious.
Rayden didn't answer right away.
When he did, his voice was steady—but something underneath it wasn't.
"…I don't know."
Smyle nodded slowly. "Yeah."
He looked back at his screen, heart beating a little faster than it should.
Rayden turned back toward the window.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them crossed the space between.
And yet—
Something had already shifted.
Because the most dangerous thing wasn't the deal anymore.
It was how natural it was starting to feel.
11:07 P.M.
The villa was quiet in that late-night way that felt too thin, like silence stretched to breaking.
Smyle sat cross-legged on the couch, sketchbook open on his lap, pencil hovering but not moving. He wasn't drawing anymore—just tracing the same line again and again, lost in thought.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway.
Smyle looked up.
Rayden was already dressed—black coat, phone in hand, expression sharp and focused in a way Smyle had learned to recognize.
Leaving.
Smyle's chest tightened before his brain caught up.
"You're going somewhere," he said.
Rayden paused mid-step.
"Yes."
That was it. No explanation.
Smyle hated that it bothered him.
"…Now?" he asked, trying to sound casual. He failed.
Rayden checked his phone again. "I'll be back."
Smyle closed his sketchbook slowly. "Where?"
Rayden hesitated.
Just long enough for Smyle to notice.
"There's a problem at the company," Rayden said finally. "I need to handle it."
Smyle frowned. "At this hour?"
Rayden met his eyes. Calm. Controlled. Too calm.
"Yes."
Smyle stood.
He didn't know why his feet carried him closer.
"I don't need details," he said quickly, as if arguing with himself.
"I just—"
He stopped.
Because he didn't want to know.
Not really.
Knowing meant fear.
Rayden's voice softened—just a fraction. "I'll be careful."
That made Smyle snap.
"You always say that."
Rayden didn't deny it.
He stepped closer, adjusting his coat. For a second, it looked like he might say something else.
Instead, he reached out—paused—and let his hand fall back to his side.
"Sleep," he said. "I'll be home before morning."
Smyle crossed his arms. "You better be."
Rayden's lips curved faintly. "I intend to."
Then he was gone.
The door closed.
And the villa felt wrong.
The Waiting
Smyle didn't sleep.
He tried.
He lay in bed. Stared at the ceiling. Counted breaths. Counted minutes.
1:23 a.m.
2:01 a.m.
2:47 a.m.
His phone stayed silent.
His chest felt tight.
This is stupid, he told himself.
You're not his keeper.
Still—he found himself pacing the living room, then the hallway, then back again.
At 4:38 a.m., the front door opened.
Smyle turned instantly.
Rayden stumbled inside.
Just slightly.
But enough.
"Rayden—?"
Rayden tried to straighten. Failed.
His hand reached for the wall.
Smyle crossed the distance in seconds.
And then he saw it.
Blood.
Not everywhere.
But enough.
Dark against the back of Rayden's shirt. Too much. Too real.
Smyle's breath left him in a sharp gasp.
"You're hurt," he said.
Rayden shook his head automatically. "It's fine."
It wasn't.
His knees buckled.
Smyle caught him.
Rayden's weight crashed into him—heavy, unguarded, terrifying.
"Rayden!" Smyle wrapped his arms around him, barely managing to keep them both upright. "You can't just—don't—"
Rayden's forehead pressed briefly against Smyle's shoulder.
"…Didn't want a hospital," he muttered. "Came home."
That broke something in Smyle.
"You're an idiot," he whispered, voice shaking. "A complete—"
But he didn't let go.
He half-dragged, half-guided Rayden toward the couch. Rayden leaned into him without protest, one arm braced weakly around Smyle's shoulders.
They collapsed together.
Rayden's breathing was uneven now.
Smyle's hands trembled as he pushed Rayden forward carefully.
"Sit. Lean. Slowly."
Rayden obeyed.
That scared Smyle more than the blood.
Smyle's fingers hovered near Rayden's back, afraid to touch, afraid not to.
"…Where are you hit?" Smyle asked.
Rayden swallowed. "Back. Side."
Smyle pressed his lips together hard.
He stood, rushed for the first-aid kit, hands clumsy, heart pounding. When he returned, Rayden was still where he'd left him—head bowed, breathing controlled but strained.
"You should've gone to a hospital," Smyle said, kneeling behind him.
"I didn't want strangers," Rayden replied quietly.
Smyle froze.
"…You came to me instead?"
Rayden didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Smyle carefully helped him out of his coat, then his shirt, every movement slow, deliberate. He avoided looking at the wound directly at first—focused on what needed to be done.
Clean. Pressure. Bandage.
His hands steadied as he worked.
"Does it hurt?" Smyle asked.
"No!" Rayden replied.
"Rayden~" Smyle said. " I want truth."
Rayden's voice was low. "yes, A little."
Smyle pressed the gauze gently. "I'm sorry."
"You're doing fine."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Smyle tied the bandage with shaking fingers.
When he was done, he didn't move away.
Rayden leaned back slightly—enough for his shoulder to rest against Smyle's chest.
Smyle stiffened.
Then wrapped his arms around him anyway.
Just to keep him upright.
Just to make sure he stayed breathing.
Neither spoke.
Rayden's weight was warm. Solid. Real.
Smyle swallowed hard.
"You scared me," he whispered.
Rayden exhaled slowly. "…I know."
"You don't get to do that," Smyle continued, voice cracking. "You don't get to walk out and come back bleeding and pretend it's nothing."
Rayden was quiet for a long moment.
Then, very softly:
"I didn't pretend."
Smyle rested his forehead against Rayden's shoulder.
"I don't want to lose you," he said—before he could stop himself.
The words hung there.
Rayden's hand lifted weakly, resting over Smyle's arm.
"…I'm not planning on going anywhere."
Smyle closed his eyes.
He hated how much that mattered.
Because somewhere between fear and care—
Rayden Black had stopped being just a contract.
And that realization terrified him more than the blood ever could.