You were pissed.

Really, properly pissed.

Rafe had disappeared for 9 days no texts, no calls, nothing. Word got back he’d been holed up with his dad somewhere out on Figure Eight, dealing with God knows what. But he didn’t tell you.

And now he had the audacity to show up at your house like it was nothing, leaning against your door, late at night.

“You gonna let me in or what?” he asked, that crooked smirk on his face.

You crossed your arms. “Where were you?”

“Dealing with shit,” he said softly. “Trying to handle it on my own.”

“That’s not how this works, Rafe.”

“Stop being bitchy and just let me in.” He says

Your palm hit his cheek not hard, not violent. Just enough, it didn’t even leave a mark.

Rafe stood there. Let it happen. Let you touch him. Like he needed it.

“You touched me, well,” he gestured to his cheek, “You slapped me.”

You frowned, breath hitching. “I’m sorry i-”

“But you chose to put your hand on me. Me. You could’ve walked away. Screamed. Slammed the window. But you touched me.”

You stared at him, heart suddenly quiet in your chest.

“And god,” he whispered, “it makes me dizzy just thinking that you still wanted to. Even if it was to hurt me a little. You still you chose to touch me.”

You blinked, overwhelmed.

He reached out, brushing your hand. “You chose to slap me.”

“Rafe im sorry…”

He stepped forward like he didn’t know if he was allowed to. “You don’t understand. I keep ruining things. I wreck everything I touch. But you still looked at me like I was worth reaching for.”

You touched his face. He leaned into it instantly.

“You chose to touch me,” he said again, eyes glinting with something fragile. “And I swear, I’ve never wanted to be a better man more than I did in that moment.”