RAYDEN
The distance didn't look dramatic.
That was the problem.
Smyle still woke on time.
Still ate.
Still answered when spoken to.
But he no longer filled space.
Rayden noticed it in the smallest ways—
the chair Smyle chose at meetings, closer to the exit.
the way he waited for instructions instead of asking questions.
the way his phone stayed face-down.
So Rayden compensated.
He doubled security rotations.
Requested hourly updates.
Installed a new tracker under the excuse of "protocol updates."
When his head of security hesitated, Rayden's voice had gone flat.
"Do it."
Control was easier than uncertainty.
And uncertainty was what Smyle had become.
SMYLE
Smyle found out about the tracker by accident.
A soft vibration under his wrist.
A delay.
A faint pulse that didn't belong.
He didn't confront Rayden.
He turned it off.
Then he left the villa alone.
No driver.
No guards.
Just the city and his own steady breathing.
THE THREAT
It wasn't dramatic either.
Just a man waiting outside a café Smyle frequented.
Mid-thirties. Clean coat. Too observant.
"You shouldn't be alone," the man said casually.
Smyle stopped walking.
"I prefer it," he replied.
The man smiled. "Mr. Black doesn't."
That was confirmation enough.
The man stepped closer. "You've been… difficult lately. He's worried."
Smyle tilted his head slightly. Calm. Studying.
"Tell him," Smyle said softly, "that worry doesn't give him ownership."
The man's smile faded. "You don't understand—"
Smyle stepped into his space.
"I understand perfectly," he said. "You were sent to scare me. Not hurt me."
A pause.
Smyle leaned closer, voice barely above a breath.
"And you won't do either."
He lifted his phone.
One tap.
A recording light blinked red.
The man stiffened.
"I already sent your face, name, and location to three places," Smyle continued. "One of them isn't Rayden."
Silence.
The man stepped back.
"Walk away," Smyle finished. "Now."
The man didn't argue.
He left.
Smyle stood there a moment longer, hands steady, heart pounding—but intact.
Then he went home.
RAYDEN
Rayden found out an hour later.
Not from security.
Not from reports.
From a third-party alert—someone Smyle had trusted enough to notify instead of him.
Rayden stared at the screen.
Handled alone.
No backup.
No permission.
His jaw tightened.
Anger came first.
Then something colder.
He didn't need me.
That realization cut deeper than any threat ever could.
When Smyle entered the villa, Rayden was already waiting.
"Where were you?" Rayden asked.
Smyle met his gaze.
"Out."
"You disabled the tracker."
"Yes."
"You were approached."
"Yes."
Rayden's voice lowered. "And you didn't think to call me?"
Smyle didn't raise his voice. Didn't flinch.
"No," he said. "I thought."
That word hit harder than defiance.
Rayden stepped closer. Too close.
"You're not independent," Rayden said quietly. "You're protected."
Smyle looked up at him.
Bruise faint at his wrist.
Eyes clear.
"I didn't ask to be protected," he replied.
The silence after Smyle's words was heavier than shouting.
"I didn't ask to be protected," Smyle said again, quieter now. "I asked to be respected."
Rayden didn't respond immediately.
That, in itself, was dangerous.
He turned away first—slowly—like a man reassembling control piece by piece. His hands clenched behind his back, knuckles pale.
"You disabled a system I put in place for your safety," Rayden said, voice calm to the point of being hollow. "You walked into a situation without backup. You risked yourself."
Smyle didn't move.
"And you punished me for distance," Smyle replied. "Without asking why."
Rayden turned sharply.
"That distance is new," he snapped. "And I don't tolerate unknown variables."
Smyle exhaled a soft, almost humorless breath.
"So I'm a variable now."
The word now hung there—sharp, accusatory.
Rayden stepped closer again, instinctively claiming space. "You are my responsibility."
Smyle finally stepped back.
Just one step.
But it was enough.
"I handled it," Smyle said. "Alone. And I came back alive."
Rayden's jaw tightened. "That doesn't make it acceptable."
"No," Smyle replied, eyes steady. "It makes it real."
THE EGO WOUND
Rayden didn't sleep that night.
He replayed the report.
The recording Smyle had sent to someone else.
The man retreating without a single guard intervening.
Smyle had been calm. Strategic. Precise.
Smyle hadn't needed him.
That truth burned.
Control had always been Rayden's language of care.
Remove risk. Remove choice. Remove chance.
But Smyle had just proven something unforgivable:
He could survive outside Rayden's shadow.
And Rayden didn't know whether to cage that strength—
—or crush it.
SMYLE
Smyle locked himself in the study.
Not to hide.
To breathe.
His hands shook only after the door closed. Only after the echo of Rayden's voice faded.
He pressed his palms to the desk and leaned forward.
He had done everything right.
And still—
his chest felt tight.
his thoughts spiraled.
Because standing alone was powerful.
But it was also lonely.
He didn't want to be fearless.
He wanted to be trusted.
THE CONFRONTATION (LATER)
Rayden entered the study without knocking.
Smyle didn't look up.
"I've reassigned your security," Rayden said. "They'll answer to me directly."
Smyle's pen stopped.
"No," he said.
Rayden blinked. Once.
"No?" he repeated, incredulous.
Smyle finally looked up.
"You don't get to tighten the leash every time I remind you I exist beyond it."
Rayden's voice dropped. "Careful."
Smyle stood.
"I am being careful," he said. "That's why I handled the threat. That's why I turned off the tracker. That's why I didn't run to you."
Rayden took a step forward. "And why didn't you?"
Smyle swallowed.
"Because I knew you'd take something away instead of listening."
That landed.
Hard.
Rayden stared at him—really stared this time.
Not as a possession.
Not as a liability.
As someone slipping out of reach.
"You don't get to make unilateral decisions," Rayden said finally.
Smyle's voice trembled—but he didn't back down.
"And you don't get to own my fear."
That night, they slept in the same bed.
Backs turned.
Space measured in inches—but feeling like miles.
Rayden lay awake, calculating.
Smyle lay awake, aching.
And somewhere between control and independence—
a fracture formed.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just deep enough to matter.