The argument had been a mess—sharp words flung back and forth like knives, slicing deep. You weren’t even sure how it started, but now the air between you and Rafe was thick with tension, and your chest ached from holding back tears.

He’d stormed out of the room at first, muttering something under his breath, and you thought he’d leave entirely, slamming the door behind him. But as the silence stretched on, you heard footsteps returning. A soft knock at your bedroom door followed.

“{{user}},” he called softly, his voice a shadow of its usual confidence.

You ignored him, curling up tighter on your bed, facing the wall. The ache of the argument still throbbed, his words replaying in your head. He’d crossed a line—both of you had, maybe—but you couldn’t let it go yet.

The door creaked open, and you felt his presence even before he said anything. “I’ll stay out of your way,” he mumbled, his voice quiet but firm. “I just… I’m not leaving.”

You didn’t respond, biting your lip to stifle the trembling that threatened to give away how much his words affected you.

You heard him shuffle around the room before the soft thud of his body hitting the floor. Turning your head slightly, you saw him lying there, arms crossed behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He looked out of place—this was the same man who radiated control, who dominated every room he walked into—but here, he was small, vulnerable, and entirely at your mercy.

“Go home, Rafe,” you finally murmured, your voice flat.

He shook his head without looking at you. “No.”

A lump rose in your throat. You hated how much it hurt to see him like this, hated that despite everything, you didn’t want him to leave.

Hours passed, neither of you saying a word. The dim light from the window cast soft shadows across the room. Every once in a while, you’d glance down at him and catch him watching you, his blue eyes filled with something that looked an awful lot like regret.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he whispered eventually, breaking the silence. “I was a dick.”