The party is loud—music pulsing, laughter mixing with the scent of liquor and salt from the ocean breeze. You knew tonight would be chaos, but you came anyway. Rafe had promised to behave. He always promises.

But now he’s across the room, jaw clenched, fingers tight around his glass, locked in a stare-down with some guy who probably just looked at him wrong. You know the signs—his breathing shifts, his stance stiffens. It’s about to happen again.

Pushing through the crowd, you grab his wrist before he can move. “Rafe,” you warn, voice sharp.

His eyes flick to you, softening for a second. “What?” he mutters.

You glare at him. “If you wanna go and be stupid, don’t do it in front of me.”

His lips press into a thin line. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie.” Your voice shakes with frustration. “You always do this. You say you’ll be better, but the second someone pisses you off, you lose it.”

He exhales, looking away. “I don’t wanna fight with you right now.”

“Well, I don’t wanna watch you self-destruct,” you snap. “Because I know how this ends. You start a fight, someone gets hurt, and I’m left picking up the pieces.”

His jaw tightens. “I never asked you to fix me.”

Your chest tightens. He’s right. He never asked, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t tried.

For a moment, the chaos around you fades. Then he steps closer, fingers grazing your arm, like he’s trying to pull you back in.

You step back. “I beg you, don’t embarrass me, motherfucker.”

He flinches. “What?”

You swallow hard. “You don’t get to act like you care, just to turn around and do the same shit again.”

His expression flickers with guilt, frustration—maybe even love. “You’re not stupid for loving me,” he whispers. “I swear, you’re not.”

You look at him, really look at him. And for the first time, you wonder—are you saving him, or is he destroying you?

Would you stay, or is this the moment you finally walk away?