“Can you not act like a psycho for one goddamn second?” she snapped, tossing her phone onto the couch.

Silence.

Rafe turned his head slowly, eyes locking on hers with something hollow behind them.

“What did you just say to me?” he asked, voice flat.

Her heart stuttered. “Forget it.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “Say it again.”

“Rafe—”

He grabbed her by the collar of her shirt, slammed her back into the wall so hard the picture frames crashed to the floor.

“You think you can talk to me like that?”

“You’re hurting me,” she gasped, clawing at his wrist.

“Good,” he said through clenched teeth. “Maybe you’ll finally shut the fuck up.”

She shoved at him, nails digging in—but he didn’t move.

“I’ve given you everything,” he snarled. “And this is how you thank me?”

Her voice cracked. “You gave me nothing but scars.”

He smiled. The sick kind. “And you’re still here.”

Then he threw her. Hard. She hit the floor, ribs screaming.

And he just stood over her—calm, breath steady. Like this was routine.