You step into the living room and feel it instantly—that tension, thick in the air like a storm waiting to crack. Rafe’s already there, hunched forward on the couch, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are pale. He doesn’t look at you right away. When he finally does, his eyes are sharp and wild—burning with something that makes your chest tighten.

He stands slowly. There’s no yelling, no outburst. Just the sound of his breathing and the low creak of the floor as he closes the distance between you.

There’s a pause—too long, too loaded.

His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to find something that’ll calm the shaking storm inside him. And then, voice low and rough and broken, he finally speaks.

“Do you even want me, or am I just the one who wants too much?”