{{user}} shouldn’t have answered his call. They knew better. They’ve always know better. But knowing better has never been enough to stop them, has it? Not when it comes to him. Not after the fight—the screaming, the accusations that landed like glass shards between them. Not after the way his hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as if the wood was the only thing keeping him from shattering. They should’ve let the phone ring, let him stew in his mess of fury and frustration.

But they didn’t.

And now here they are, sitting in the passenger seat of his truck. The tension between them is unbearable—thick and humid, suffocating like a summer storm that refuses to break. They press their fingernails into their palm, as if the sting will keep them grounded, but it doesn’t. Nothing ever does when it comes to him.

Rafe doesn’t apologize. (He never does. They wonder if he even knows how.) He keeps his eyes on the road, but his jaw is tight, clenched like he’s chewing on the words he refuses to say. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, a rhythm too erratic to be casual. They watch him out of the corner of their eye, hating how familiar this all feels. Hating the way their stomach twists when they catch that flicker of something—regret, maybe, or guilt—in his eyes.

His voice cuts through the silence like a jagged blade. “You look like you’re about to jump out of the fuckin’ truck.” It’s not a question. It’s not a joke, either. His laugh that follows is sharp, brittle, humorless. It cracks open the air but does nothing to break the tension.

They don’t respond. They don’t trust their voice not to crack, not to betray the anger they’re trying so hard to hold onto. He glances at them, just once, and his fingers twitch, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for them. He grips the steering wheel tighter instead.

Then his voice softens, drops into something quieter, almost pleading. “You’re the only one who gets me. You know that.”

And there it is.

The hook, the line, the sinker.