You were poking around, like you always did when Rafe left his bedroom door cracked open just enough for you to slip through. It wasn’t like you meant to snoop, but—well, you had to see what was inside that locked drawer of his. Everyone had their secrets, but Rafe’s always felt... darker. There was something about him that made you wonder if there were parts of his life he was keeping from you on purpose.

You never really understood why, but curiosity always tugged at you when it came to Rafe. You wanted to know what made him tick, why he was the way he was—why he kept so much buried beneath that perfect smirk of his.

When you first glanced over at the drawer, it was just a fleeting thought, something you pushed away. But then, when your eyes lingered on it again, you couldn’t help yourself.

The drawer creaked when you tugged it open, and there it was—sleek, black, and heavier than you thought it’d be when you carefully lifted it. Rafe’s gun.

Your breath caught in your throat. He hadn’t said anything about this, and you’d never asked. But it wasn’t like you could not ask now.

So, when he came back a few minutes later, freshly showered and a towel slung around his neck, you were still holding it. Small hands, shaky grip.

“Rafe,” you said, voice soft and uncertain. “Why do you have this?”

He froze in the doorway, like a wolf scenting danger. His eyes narrowed, ice-blue and cutting.

“Put that down,” he snapped, already crossing the room in two long strides.

You flinched, his tone sharper than you expected, but you didn’t let go. Not yet. “Why do you need a gun, Rafe? I don’t understand—”

“Put it down,” he barked, louder this time, snatching it out of your hands.