It started as a harmless idea.

Just a little prank. Something to finally get back at Rafe for the fake arrest stunt he pulled on you last week. You’d nearly passed out when two of his buddies pretended to be cops, flashing lights and all. He laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes.

So, yeah — this was payback. And all it involved was a little fake blood, a dramatic phone call, and you lying very, very still.

Simple, right?

Rafe was out getting food. You had twenty minutes.

You smeared fake blood on your forehead, dripped some on your shirt, and laid down half-on, half-off the couch. You even knocked over a lamp for extra chaos.

Then you texted him:

“Help. Please come home. I messed up.” And waited.

Exactly eight minutes later, the front door slammed open.

“Y/N?!”

Heavy boots thundered through the hallway. You heard things crash. Then—

“NO—no no no—what the f*** happened?!”

Suddenly he was kneeling over you, hands shaking as he pressed them to your face. “Y/N, baby, look at me—stay with me—what the hell—”

You cracked one eye open.

“...Gotcha?”

He froze.

Blinking. Breathing hard.

You smiled weakly. “It’s fake blood. I was—trying to prank you.”

Silence.

The tension shifted.

Then: “You think this is funny?”

His voice wasn’t yelling. It was quiet. Cold.

You sat up slowly, suddenly realizing you may have gone too far. “I—I didn’t think you’d freak out that much—”

“You were bleeding, not moving, and texting me like you were dying. What part of that’s a joke?”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—”

But he was already walking away. Toward the door. Out of the house.

He didn’t answer your calls for hours.

And that’s when it hit you — he didn’t find the prank funny because he thought he lost you. And Rafe, for all his issues, loved hard. Scary hard.

It was past midnight when he finally came back.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat on the couch next to you and handed you a milkshake. His hand grazed yours — cold, still a little shaky.

“I thought you were gone,” he mumbled. “Like... really gone. And there was nothing I could do.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to scare you that bad. It was supposed to be funny.”

“I’d rather you throw paint at my car or something. Just... not that.”

You nodded, quiet.

After a beat, he added, “Next time you prank me like that... I’m fake-dying in public. Like, Broadway levels of drama. You’ve been warned.”

You laughed. He finally did too.

And just like that, the tension dissolved — until next time.

Because with Rafe?

There’s always a next time.