The moment Rayden woke up with a dull ache in his back and a warm weight pressed against his chest he knew it was Smyle... He has that feeling. He hadn't laid down—couldn't. So he'd slept sitting, spine rigid, pain carefully controlled.
Somehow… Smyle had found his way there anyway.
Rayden's arms were still around him, instinctive, protective. Smyle was curled into his side like he belonged there—head tucked against Rayden's chest, one arm wrapped tight around his waist, the other fisted lightly in his shirt as if afraid he'd disappear.
Like he was anchoring him.
Rayden stayed still.
He listened.
Smyle's breathing was slow, even. Warm against his skin. Every rise and fall pressed gently against Rayden's ribs, grounding him in a way nothing ever had.
This was dangerous.
Not the mafia kind.
The worse kind.
Rayden shifted just a fraction, testing his back. Pain flared—sharp enough to pull a low breath from his throat.
Smyle stirred immediately.
His forehead creased. His arm tightened.
Rayden glanced down.
Too close.
Too soft.
He should wake him. He should pull away. He should never have let this happen.
Instead, quietly, he murmured,
"You're holding me like I'll run."
Smyle hummed, half-asleep. "You would."
Rayden's lips curved before he could stop them. "You're wrong."
Smyle cracked one eye open. "Liar."
Rayden lowered his chin slightly. "Good morning."
Smyle blinked a few times, then registered where he was.
On Rayden.
Fully.
Both arms around him.
His face flushed instantly. "I—"
Then he froze. "Did you just smile?"
Rayden raised an eyebrow. "I do that."
"No, you don't."
"I just did."
Smyle narrowed his eyes and lifted his hand—then smacked Rayden's chest lightly. Not hard. More offended than angry.
Rayden sucked in a breath on purpose. "You're beating the patient, you know."
"Shut up," Smyle muttered.
Rayden laughed.
Actually laughed.
It was low. Soft. Unrestrained.
And it ruined Smyle.
His hand froze mid-air. His breath caught. His heart did something stupid and painful and fast.
Rayden's smile wasn't sharp today. Or cold.
It was… warm.
Unpracticed.
Cute.
Smyle looked away immediately. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That." He gestured vaguely. "That face."
Rayden tilted his head. "You mean this one?"
Smyle slapped him again—gentler this time. "You're impossible."
Rayden hummed. "You stayed."
Smyle didn't answer.
He carefully untangled himself, slow enough not to jostle Rayden's back. When he stood, he hovered for a second—eyes scanning Rayden's face, the faint pallor, the tightness around his eyes.
"You're resting," Smyle said firmly. "No arguments."
Rayden opened his mouth.
Smyle pointed at him. "I mean it."
Rayden closed it.
Smyle turned toward the kitchen, already pulling his phone out. As he chopped fruit and heated soup—something light, something healthy—he called his friends.
"Oh?" Ohm said instantly. "So you're ditching us?"
Smyle sighed. "Rayden has fever."
There was a pause.
Then chaos.
"EXCUSE ME?"
"FEVER??"
"You're playing nurse now?"
"Married life suits you," Hong teased.
Smyle hissed, "Shut up. He's injured."
That sobered them—just slightly.
"Oh," James said. "That serious?"
"Yes," Smyle said quietly. "So… give my leave."
"Ohm laughed softly. "Take care of him. We'll cover."
Smyle hung up and exhaled.
When he returned to the living room with a tray, Rayden was exactly where he'd left him—one hand braced against the couch, jaw clenched as he tried to adjust himself.
"Stop," Smyle snapped.
Rayden stilled.
Smyle set the tray down and knelt beside him. "You're not invincible."
Rayden tried to reach for the spoon.
His shoulder moved.
Pain shot through him.
A sharp, unguarded sound escaped his throat. "—ah."
Smyle froze.
Then gently took the spoon from his hand.
"Don't," Rayden said automatically.
Smyle met his eyes. "Let me."
Rayden hesitated.
No one had ever said that to him before.
Not like this.
Smyle scooped a careful bite and lifted it toward him. "aaaaa."
"Huh??" Rayden said. He was confused.
Smyle pointed toward Rayden's mouth with his eyes . "open. Aaaaaa"
Rayden did.
The moment the spoon touched his lips, something inside him cracked.
This wasn't strategy.
This wasn't obligation.
This wasn't fear.
This was care.
Unasked for.
Undeserved.
His eyes burned. Moisture gathered before he could stop it.
Rayden looked away quickly.
Smyle noticed.
Of course he did.
But he didn't say anything.
He just fed him another bite. Slower. Gentler.
Rayden swallowed hard.
For the first time in his life… someone was taking care of him without expecting anything back.
And somehow, that hurt worse than the bullet ever did.
Smyle set the spoon down softly. "You don't have to be strong all the time," he said quietly.
Rayden didn't trust his voice.
So he nodded.
And let himself be held together—just for a little while longer.
AFTER AN HOUR
Rayden was resting on couch and Smyle was doing some assignments.
"I have a meeting," Rayden said calmly, phone already in his hand.
Smyle didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"No, you don't."
Rayden glanced at him. "Smyle—"
"You were shot," Smyle cut in. "You have fever. You are not going anywhere."
Rayden smiled faintly. "It's just a normal meeting. I can sit. I won't move much."
Smyle walked over, took the phone from Rayden's hand, and placed it firmly on the table.
"You," Smyle said slowly, "are staying right here."
Rayden blinked.
"…Are you ordering me?"
"Yes."
The answer was instant.
Rayden stared at him for a second—and then laughed. A quiet, surprised sound, like he hadn't expected that at all.
Before Smyle could react, Rayden picked up his phone again and dialed.
"Yes," Rayden said into the call, tone perfectly professional.
"No, I won't be coming in today."
A pause.
"…Because my cute wife is sulking and threatening my recovery."
Smyle's eyes widened. "Rayden!"
Rayden lowered the phone just in time to receive a slow, very deliberate slap on his arm.
"Don't call me cute," Smyle hissed.
Rayden barely reacted to the hit. Instead, his smile grew—soft, amused, real.
On the other end of the call, his assistant was clearly confused.
"I'll reschedule," Rayden said calmly. "Yes. Effective immediately."
He ended the call.
Smyle crossed his arms again, trying to look stern. "You think this is funny?"
Rayden looked at him for a long moment.
"No," he said quietly.
"I think it's… nice."
Smyle didn't know what to do with that.
LATER THAT NIGHT
The villa was quiet again.
Smyle had insisted Rayden stay on the couch, surrounded by pillows, blankets tucked around him like armor. Rayden protested exactly once—and then gave up.
Smyle sat beside him with a book, pretending to read.
Rayden watched him instead.
"You're not turning pages," Rayden said.
Smyle blinked. "…Mind your business."
Rayden shifted slightly, pain flaring just enough to remind him why he was still there. Smyle noticed instantly.
"Don't move," Smyle said, already adjusting the pillow behind his back.
Rayden exhaled. "You're very bossy today."
"You like it," Smyle replied automatically.
Rayden didn't deny it.
As the hours passed, Rayden's eyelids grew heavy. Eventually, without asking, he rested his head against Smyle's thigh—careful, hesitant, like he expected to be told no.
Smyle froze.
Rayden murmured, "Just for a minute."
Smyle swallowed. "Okay."
Minutes passed. Then more.
Rayden slept.
Smyle continued reading… until he didn't.
Without realizing it, his hand lifted and rested on Rayden's hair. His fingers moved slowly, gently—just a light, unconscious pat.
Rayden didn't wake.
Smyle's chest felt tight.
When did this start feeling normal?
He leaned back, eyes closing.
And fell asleep too.
Midnight
The nightmare came without warning.
Rayden gasped awake, breath sharp, chest tight.
The dream was familiar. Too familiar.
Empty rooms.
Doors closing.
Voices fading.
People leaving.
And then—
Smyle turning away.
"No—" Rayden whispered, voice breaking. "Don't… don't leave…"
His hands clenched, searching.
Smyle stirred.
"Rayden?" Smyle murmured, still half-asleep.
Rayden's control shattered.
He grabbed Smyle and pulled him close, arms tight, desperate—too tight. His breathing broke into quiet, uneven sobs.
"Don't leave me," Rayden said, voice cracking. "Please—don't—"
Smyle was fully awake now.
"Hey," Smyle said softly, immediately wrapping his arms around Rayden. "I'm here. I'm here."
Rayden buried his face against Smyle's chest, shaking.
"I saw you go," Rayden whispered. "Everyone always goes."
Smyle held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of Rayden's head.
"I'm not going anywhere," Smyle said firmly. "Look at me."
Rayden didn't want to.
Smyle gently lifted his chin anyway.
"I'm here," Smyle repeated. "You didn't lose me. You're safe."
Rayden's grip loosened just a little.
His wound stung, warm, but he didn't care. The pain was nothing compared to the fear.
"I thought…" Rayden's voice broke completely. "I thought I was alone again."
Smyle shook his head. "Not tonight. Not anymore."
Rayden let out a shaky breath—and for the first time, he cried without hiding it.
Smyle stayed.
Held him.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't let go.
And somewhere between the fading nightmare and the steady sound of Smyle's heartbeat, Rayden finally slept again—this time without fear.
Wrapped in the same blanket.
Not alone. Not afraid anymore. It was something that he never asked but always needed.