Rafe is sitting on the porch rail of Tannyhill cigarette lit, one boot propped against the post, blue eyes watching the road like he’s been there for hours.

The moment you step into view, he sees you. Really sees you. And the tension in his jaw gets worse.

Smoke curls past his lips. The knife at his belt glints as he shifts his weight. He doesn’t smile.

“You’re late.” His voice is low. Controlled. But something flickers behind it. A storm barely held at bay.

“Where were you?”

You don’t answer fast enough. He hops down, cigarette falling to the gravel, crushed beneath his boot.

“Don’t lie.” He steps closer. Close enough for you to smell salt and gasoline and whatever cologne clings to his collarbone. “I know when someone’s been near you. I know when someone else has touched you.”

His hand reaches up slow, rough fingers ghosting over your wrist like he’s checking you for proof. But his touch doesn’t hurt. It never does. Not with you.

“Just tell me it was nothing.” A beat. A whisper. “Tell me you’re still mine.”

Because if you’re not? He doesn’t know what he’ll do.