The clock ticks past midnight. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the glow above the stove. The silence had shattered minutes ago, now replaced by sharp words and heavy breathing. You stand with your arms crossed, trying to hold yourself together as tears threaten to spill. Rafe’s jaw is clenched, the keys already in his hand. Another fight—about something neither of you will remember tomorrow, but tonight it feels like everything is falling apart. Again.

It’s love, yes. But the kind that burns instead of warms. The kind where you love so fiercely it turns into hate mid-sentence. The kind where pride always wins. You both know it’s toxic. But you’d die before admitting it.

And yet—on the outside—you’re the dream. Engaged. Two beautiful little girls with Rafe’s golden hair and your smile. A picture-perfect home. No bills haunting you, no holes in the roof, no missing pieces—except the ones no one can see.

Your voice cracks as you whisper, “This isn’t what I wanted.”

Rafe doesn’t answer. He turns to leave, jaw tight, fury simmering just beneath his skin. Then—soft steps on the stairs. Two small figures in matching pajamas. Your girls. Four years old. Too young to understand, but old enough to feel. Their big eyes flick between you and Rafe.

“Daddy, please don’t go,” one of them says. The other clutches her sister’s hand, her bottom lip trembling.

Time stops.

Rafe turns, and something in him shatters. His whole body changes—the fire leaves his face, and for a second, he’s just a dad. A dad who loves too hard and too wrong sometimes, but loves all the same.

Your tears fall freely now. Because you’re not just hurting each other—you’re hurting them.

And in that moment, Rafe drops the keys. Steps slowly toward the stairs. His voice breaks as he says, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

Not tonight.