The day started fine.
That was the worst part.
University felt lighter than it had in weeks. His friends noticed it immediately.
"Look at you," one of them laughed, nudging his shoulder. "Married glow or what?"
Smyle rolled his eyes but smiled anyway.
"Shut up."
Another friend grinned. "If this is marriage, I wanna get married too."
Even ohm joined in—soft teasing, familiar, warm.
It felt… normal.
Smyle walked alone after class, earbuds in, jacket loose around his shoulders. The sky was heavy, grey threatening rain, but he didn't mind. For once, he didn't feel watched.
Then it happened.
A voice.
"You're Mr. Black's husband, right?"
Smyle stopped.
A girl. Phone already half-raised. Curious, not cruel.
"Does he actually let you go out alone?"
The word let hit harder than it should have.
Someone else laughed.
Another whispered, "He owns everything."
Smyle smiled politely. Too politely.
"He doesn't own me," he said calmly.
The rain started suddenly—cold, sharp, unforgiving.
Phones disappeared. People scattered.
But the words stayed.
By the time Smyle reached the bus stop, his clothes were soaked. Hair plastered to his forehead. Shoes squelching with every step.
And the calm cracked.
His chest tightened. His hands shook.
You don't belong to just one world, he had said once.
But today, it felt like he didn't belong to any.
Smyle didn't go home immediately.
He sat on a bench under partial shelter, rain soaking his jeans anyway. His breathing went shallow. Vision blurring.
He hugged himself tightly.
"I'm okay," he whispered. "I'm okay."
He wasn't.
His phone slipped from numb fingers and clattered onto the concrete. He didn't pick it up.
When everything finally went dark, it wasn't fear.
It was exhaustion
Rayden was already in a bad mood.
Meetings stacked. Delays. A sense of wrongness he couldn't explain.
Then his phone rang.
Unknown number.
"Mr. Black?" a man said. "Your husband—he collapsed near campus. We called emergency services."
Rayden didn't remember standing.
Didn't remember grabbing his coat.
Only the sound of his own heartbeat—loud, violent, unforgiving.
THE HOSPITAL
Smyle woke up shivering.
Warm blankets. White lights. The smell of antiseptic.
And Rayden.
Standing too still at the foot of the bed. Suit damp from rain. Eyes dark with something close to rage—but not outward.
Not at Smyle.
At himself.
"He had a panic episode combined with hypothermia," the doctor said calmly. "Stress-induced. He's lucky someone noticed."
Rayden nodded once.
Didn't speak.
The doctor left.
The silence that followed was brutal.
"I'm sorry," Smyle whispered first.
Rayden's head snapped up.
"No," he said sharply. "Don't."
Smyle flinched.
Rayden moved closer immediately, lowering his voice. "Don't apologize. This is on me."
Smyle frowned weakly. "You weren't there."
"That's exactly the problem."
BACK HOME
Rayden didn't let the staff handle it.
He dismissed them all.
In the bedroom, he helped Smyle sit on the edge of the bed, movements careful, controlled—but his hands shook slightly.
"Your clothes are still wet," Rayden said quietly. "You'll get sick."
Smyle nodded, too tired to argue.
Rayden turned away for a moment. Gave him privacy.
Then returned with a towel, warm clothes.
"I'll help," Rayden said. Not a question.
Smyle hesitated—then nodded.
Rayden worked silently.
Unbuttoning the soaked jacket. Sliding it off gently. Wrapping the towel around Smyle's shoulders immediately.
His touch was careful. Almost reverent.
"I should've been there," Rayden said quietly as he wiped Smyle's arms dry. "I knew today would be difficult."
Smyle's teeth chattered. "You can't control everything."
"I know," Rayden said.
That was new.
He knelt to dry Smyle's hands, pressing them gently between the towel and his own palms to warm them.
"You were cold," Rayden murmured, more to himself than Smyle. "I let you walk into that alone."
Smyle's eyes burned.
"You didn't let me," he said weakly. "I chose—"
Rayden looked up sharply.
"No," he said. "You chose independence. I responded with distance."
His jaw clenched. "And that nearly broke you."
He helped Smyle into dry clothes, moving slowly when Smyle winced. When he finished, he wrapped a blanket around him and guided him to sit back against the pillows.
Rayden sat on the floor beside the bed.
Head bowed.
Hands clenched.
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
Then—quietly, dangerously honest—
"I hate that I needed this to learn," Rayden said. "I hate that my obsession looks like protection and feels like punishment."
Smyle reached out weakly and rested his fingers on Rayden's sleeve.
"I didn't want to be brave," Smyle whispered. "I just didn't want to disappear."
Rayden closed his eyes.
His voice broke—for the first time not in anger, but shame.
"You won't," he said. "Not again."
Not a promise.
A vow.
Smyle felt asleep slowly but Rayden didn't. He was watching Smyle, his eyes , his face , his lips , his hairs , his nose , cheeks , everything.
He whispered
"How cute."
And his leashes felt heavy and in minutes he was already in dreams.
IN MORNING
Morning didn't arrive all at once.
It seeped in—thin light slipping through the curtains, dust floating like it had nowhere urgent to be.
Smyle stayed still.
Rayden's head rested on his hand, the weight gentle but grounding. His hair was mussed, suit long gone, sleeves rolled up like he'd never intended to sleep at all. One hand still loosely held the edge of the blanket, as if even unconscious he was afraid Smyle might vanish.
Smyle studied him the way you look at something fragile you weren't supposed to love this much.
The sharp lines of his face were softer like this. Vulnerable in a way Rayden never allowed the world to see. No control. No walls. Just a man who had stayed awake until exhaustion forced him under.
Smyle swallowed.
"How adorable," he breathed—so quietly it barely existed.
Rayden shifted.
Instinct kicked in before thought. Smyle closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, let himself sink back into stillness.
Rayden woke like he always did—alert too fast, shoulders tightening as awareness snapped into place. His first thought wasn't himself.
It was the hand beneath his head.
He froze.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted himself up, as though the smallest movement might undo everything. Smyle didn't stir. His lashes rested softly against his cheeks, lips parted slightly in sleep.
Alive. Warm. Here.
Rayden sat there for a moment longer than necessary, guilt settling deep and familiar in his chest.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
The words were barely sound. More confession than apology. He didn't expect forgiveness—not from Smyle, not from himself.
He stood, adjusted the blanket once more, then left the room quietly.
The door clicked shut.
Only then did Smyle open his eyes.
The house felt different after that.
Too quiet. Like it was holding its breath.
Smyle showered slowly, letting warm water ease the lingering chill from his bones. His reflection looked tired, but steadier. Grounded. Still himself.
Downstairs, he found tea already made. Not fresh—but warm. Left there deliberately.
Rayden wasn't around.
Smyle sat at the table, fingers wrapped around the mug, replaying the previous day in fragments—the rain, the words, the way the world had felt too narrow to stand in.
And then Rayden's voice.
Rayden's hands.
Rayden on the floor, broken open by something he couldn't control.
For the first time, Smyle understood something clearly.
Rayden hadn't been trying to cage him.
He'd been afraid of losing him.
That didn't excuse the distance. But it explained the fear beneath it.
Footsteps echoed softly.
Rayden stopped when he saw Smyle awake.
They looked at each other—really looked.
No anger. No tension. Just the quiet aftermath of something that could've gone very wrong.