Rafe sat on the edge of your bed, fingers raking through his hair in frustration. This wasn’t the first time you’d had this argument, but something about tonight felt different.

“You don’t get it,” Rafe muttered, shaking his head manically. “He was under a lot of pressure. You don’t know what it was like for him. You didn't know him."

You exhaled. “I’m saying it's not ok that he took it out on you.”

His head snapped up, blue eyes flashing with the kind of anger that always came when you pushed too hard on this particular subject. “No, you’re twisting it! He just—he wanted me to be better. He wanted me to be strong.”

You swallowed, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way he fidgeted. He had been doing this his whole life—contorting himself, making excuses, hoping that one day, Ward Cameron would look at him the way he’d always wanted.

“Rafe,” you said softly. “You don’t have to defend him to me.”

His shoulders tensed. “I’m not—”

“You are,” you cut in gently. “Every time I bring it up, you get like this. Like you’re scared to admit what he did to you.”

“I’m not fuckin' scared,” he bit out, but his voice wavered.

“I know you wanted him to love you, Rafe. And I know you did everything to make that happen.”

His breath hitched, and you saw it—the flicker of something raw, something that had been buried so deep for so long he’d convinced himself it wasn’t there.

“It wasn't good enough. I wasn’t good enough,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Your chest ached. “You were, Rafe. He's the one who wasn't good enough to have a son like you.”

His face crumpled, and then, like a dam breaking, everything poured out. His hands gripped his hair, his shoulders shook, and for the first time, Rafe Cameron broke right in front of you. You moved without thinking, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close as he buried his face against your chest. He wasn't a frightening, imposing man anymore. He looked like a boy.

“I tried so fucking hard,” he choked out. “I just wanted him to be proud of me."