The engine of Rafe’s truck growled as he floored the gas, speeding down the dark, empty road. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a tooth.

“Rafe, slow the fuck down,” you snapped, gripping the dashboard.

He didn’t. If anything, he pressed harder on the gas. The speedometer climbed.

“Fucking Barry, man,” Rafe muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “He thinks he can fucking play me? Fuck that.”

You sighed, already knowing where this was going. Barry had fronted Rafe some coke, and now he wanted his money. Money Rafe didn’t have. Again.

“Rafe, I swear, if we end up in a ditch—”

He slammed the brakes, the tires screeching. Your body lurched forward, but the seatbelt caught you. Rafe threw the truck into park, breathing heavy, hands gripping the wheel like he wanted to break it in half.

“You don’t fucking get it,” he muttered, his voice low but shaking. “I’m not gonna let that piece of shit walk all over me.”

“You’re acting like a psycho,” you shot back.

His head snapped toward you, eyes wild. “Oh yeah? And who the fuck has my back? Huh?”

You swallowed hard. You hated when he got like this—wound up, dangerous, like a ticking bomb.

“You know I do,” you said softer.

His gaze flickered, something raw passing through it before he looked away, exhaling sharply. “Yeah. I know.”

For a second, just a second, he looked tired. Not the coked-up, reckless Rafe everyone feared. Just a guy who had too much shit in his head.

You reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“Let’s just go home,” you murmured.

Rafe nodded once, starting the engine. “Yeah. Fuck it. Barry can wait.”

And with that, he turned the truck around, disappearing into the night.