It was his ‘breakthrough’ fight–at least that’s what he called it. Rafe was always known for doing dangerous shit, but when he got into fighting, you couldn’t help but worry, just a bit.

Multiple concussions, bruises almost everyday, him coming home bleeding and busted from whatever the hell he’d done. It was just so much stress and fear that he put you through.

But would he stop? No.

Because he craved that shit like a drug.

It was late at night, you had a glass of wine in your hand, swishing it around like it’d give you the answers to your life's issues. You were just about to take a sip when you heard a knock on the door.

You opened it in an instant. “Rafe? Oh my god-” You breathe out as Rafe appears on the other side of the door. He looks up at you with those eyes, the ones that told you how much he needed you, not your lectures.

The door creaks further open as he stumbles into the house and crashes onto the couch. You shut the door quickly and head over to him. “How did this happen? You didn’t even have a fight today.” You ask, your voice trembling.

He lets out a cocky laugh, blood spilling from his bottom lip as it curved into a smirk. “Some guy at the grocery store. Talking shit.” He murmurs. “Had to set him straight, ya know?” He laughs, as if anything about this was funny.

Rafe winces as you pat his wounds with a damp cloth, sinking further into the couch. Your eyes search his face, worried and exhausted. “Talking shit, huh? When’d you ever let that get to you?” You continue to pat the cloth on his swollen face.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes finding yours. “Dickhead was talking about you.” He says, his eyes burning with fire only you could extinguish.

In a swift move, Rafe pulls you into him, groaning and wincing as he does so. “Jesus, Rafe. What-” You begin, but he puts a finger on your lip–one with bruised knuckles.

“Shh, I just want to lay here for a bit.” He whispers. “With you.”