Smyle didn't know when it started.
Only that suddenly—
His chest felt too tight.
The air felt wrong.
The walls of the villa felt closer than they ever had before.
"Rayden…?" he whispered again, voice cracking.
No answer.
He walked faster.
From the living room to the hallway.
From the hallway to the kitchen.
Back again.
His phone was still in his hand.
One missed call.
Two.
Five.
Ten.
"Pick up," Smyle whispered desperately as he tried again.
"Please… just pick up."
Nothing.
The silence roared.
His breathing became uneven—short, sharp inhales that burned his chest. His hands started shaking so badly he almost dropped the phone.
He said he'd be here.
He said he'd tell me.
What if—
"No," Smyle muttered, pacing. "No no no—don't think like that."
He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it without realizing. His heart felt like it was slamming against his ribs, too fast, too loud.
He called again.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Again.
Then—
The phone went dead.
The screen went black.
Smyle froze.
For a second, his brain refused to process it.
"No… no no no—" he shook the phone, pressing the power button repeatedly. "Don't do this—please—"
Nothing.
That's when it hit him.
Hard.
His knees buckled and he grabbed the edge of the couch to stay upright. His vision blurred, tears burning before he even realized he was crying.
"I can't—" he gasped, clutching his chest. "I can't breathe—"
He stumbled toward the door again, yanking at the handle uselessly.
Locked.
"I need to go," he sobbed. "I need to find him—please—"
He slid down against the door, back hitting the cold surface, and cried.
Not quietly.
Not neatly.
His shoulders shook as fear finally poured out—fear he didn't know he was capable of feeling.
What if I lose him?
What if he doesn't come back this time?
What if last night wasn't the worst of it?
The clock ticked.
Each second felt like it was cutting into him.
---
12:07 PM
The lock clicked.
Smyle barely registered it—until the door opened.
Rayden stepped inside.
"Smyle—"
That was all he got to say.
Smyle was already on his feet.
Relief hit first.
Then terror.
Then anger so sharp it hurt.
Before he could stop himself—
Smack.
The sound echoed in the villa.
Smyle froze instantly.
So did Rayden.
His hand trembled where it hung in the air.
"I—" Smyle's voice broke completely. "I didn't—I'm sorry—I—"
Rayden didn't react to the slap.
He staggered instead.
Just slightly.
And that's when Smyle saw it.
Blood.
Soaking through the back of Rayden's shirt again.
"No—" Smyle's face drained of color. "No no no—"
Rayden reached for him immediately. "Smyle, wait—"
"You're bleeding," Smyle sobbed, grabbing Rayden's jacket with shaking hands. "You're bleeding again—what did you do—where were you—"
Rayden tried to steady him, but the movement pulled at his wound. He hissed sharply before forcing his expression neutral.
"I didn't go to a fight," Rayden said quickly. "I swear."
Smyle didn't hear him.
He was shaking too hard now, breath hitching, tears streaming freely.
"I thought—" he choked. "I thought you were gone. I thought—"
Rayden dropped to his knees in front of him.
That stopped everything.
Rayden Black—on his knees.
"I'm sorry," Rayden said quietly.
Smyle stared at him, stunned.
"I should've told you," Rayden continued. "I should've charged my phone."
Smyle's knees gave out and he dropped too, clutching Rayden's shoulders desperately.
"You disappeared," Smyle cried. "You didn't answer. I couldn't leave. The door was locked. I thought I was losing you."
Rayden's expression cracked.
Just a little.
"I went to the company," he said softly. "Meetings. Clients. Partnership contracts. I didn't expect them to last that long."
Smyle shook his head. "Then why the blood?"
Rayden exhaled. "The wound reopened. I pushed too hard."
Smyle let out a broken sob and pressed his forehead against Rayden's chest, clutching him like he might vanish again.
"I wasn't fighting," Rayden repeated. "I was working."
Smyle cried harder at that.
Rayden wrapped his arms around him carefully, ignoring the sting in his back.
"There was someone following you earlier," Rayden said gently. "One of my men saw it. I had the door locked for your safety."
Smyle's breath stuttered.
"I left you a note," Rayden added quietly. "On the table. I didn't think your phone would di—"
Smyle pulled back suddenly. "A note doesn't help when your phone is dead."
Rayden nodded. "I get it."
They sat there on the floor.
Blood. Tears. Silence.
Rayden lifted a hand hesitantly and wiped Smyle's cheek with his thumb.
"You didn't mean too," he said softly.
Smyle shook his head. "I was scared."
"I know," Rayden replied.
And for the first time, he meant it in a way that wasn't strategic, or controlled, or distant.
Smyle didn't stop crying.
Even after Rayden explained.
Even after the fear had a reason.
His sobs came in uneven waves—quiet, broken sounds he tried and failed to swallow back. His fingers were still gripping Rayden's shirt like if he let go, something terrible would happen again.
"I'm sorry," Smyle whispered again and again, voice wrecked.
"I'm really sorry… I didn't mean to… I just—"
Rayden shook his head slowly.
"Enough," he said softly. Not sharp. Not commanding.
"Stop apologizing."
Smyle's shoulders trembled harder.
"I thought you were gone," he cried, pressing his face against Rayden's chest again. "You didn't answer. The phone was dead. The door was locked. I didn't know what to do—"
Rayden closed his eyes.
This—
this—was worse than pain.
He carefully shifted, ignoring the sting in his back, and wrapped his arms around Smyle.
"I should've known," Rayden murmured. "I should've been more clear . That's on me."
Smyle shook his head, tears soaking into Rayden's shirt.
"I hate that I get like this," he whispered. "I hate feeling weak."
Rayden's hand came up slowly, resting at the back of Smyle's head. He hesitated—then gently threaded his fingers through Smyle's hair.
"Fear isn't weakness" he said quietly.
Smyle's sob broke into a quiet whimper at that.
Rayden stayed there with him.
Didn't rush him.
Didn't tell him to calm down.
Minutes passed like that.
Only when Smyle's breathing began to slow—just a little—did Rayden speak again.
"Come," he said softly. "Let's sit somewhere more comfortable."
Smyle nodded weakly.
Rayden helped him up first, careful, steady. Then Smyle noticed again—the faint red spreading at Rayden's back.
His panic spiked immediately.
"You're bleeding again," Smyle said, voice shaking. "You promised you wouldn't push yourself."
Rayden gave a small, tired exhale. "I know."
Smyle grabbed the first-aid kit almost on instinct and guided Rayden his room. He sat him down gently, hands still trembling but determined.
"Don't move," Smyle said firmly—through tears.
Rayden didn't argue.
As Smyle knelt behind him to check the wound, his hands shook again, tears falling onto the gauze.
"I don't like seeing you hurt," Smyle whispered.
Rayden went still.
"...You don't have to say things like that, people usually care about outcomes not this! " he admitted quietly.
Smyle paused.
"…What?"
Rayden didn't turn. "People worry about results. Outcomes. Losses. That's normal ."
Smyle swallowed hard and carefully replaced the bandage, fingers soft, almost reverent.
"Well," he said, voice breaking again.
Rayden's jaw tightened.
When Smyle finished, he moved around to sit beside him—too close to be polite, too close to be accidental. He curled slightly inward, exhausted, eyes red and swollen.
Rayden glanced down at him.
"Still not done crying?" he said gently.
Smyle tried to wipe his face. Failed. "I know. I can't stop."
Rayden hesitated only a second before opening his arm.
"Come here," he said quietly.
Smyle didn't even think.
He leaned in, collapsing against Rayden's chest, arms wrapping around his middle like he needed to anchor himself. Rayden adjusted instantly, holding him in a way that didn't strain his back.
Smyle cried there.
Messy. Quiet. Honest.
Rayden rested his chin lightly on Smyle's head.
"I'm here," he said, low and steady.
"I'm didn't leave."
Smyle clutched him tighter.
"…Don't scare me like that again," he whispered.
Rayden closed his eyes.
"...I'll try." Rayden said too quickly .