The door slammed.

YN didn’t flinch—she was too mad for that. She stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her chest burned with all the words left unsaid—and all the ones that had been shouted.

Behind her, Rafe’s footsteps stopped.

“Say something,” he said, his voice low and sharp, like he was daring her.

She didn’t. Not yet. Not until he added, “I’m not walking out of here without you.”

She turned slowly, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to blow up on me and then act like you’re the victim.”

“I never said I was the victim,” he growled, taking a step forward, “but I’m not the only one who’s good at shutting down.”

The silence between them snapped tight like a pulled wire. His chest was rising, falling fast. Her nails dug into her palms. He looked wrecked. So did she.

He took another step. Then another. Until they were chest-to-chest and eye-to-eye.

“You’re mad,” he said, voice low.

“No kidding,” she snapped.

“You hate me right now.”

“Probably.”

He reached up and gripped her jaw—not hard, but firm enough that she had no choice but to look at him. His eyes burned.

“Then hate me,” he muttered. “But don’t you dare walk away.”

Her lips parted to say something smart, but he kissed her before she could. It wasn’t gentle—it was all teeth and fury, months of passion and frustration crashing like waves.

Her hands shoved at his chest, but not to stop him—to pull him closer. He groaned into her mouth, walking her backward until her spine hit the wall.

“Still mad?” he breathed, lips brushing her neck.

“More than ever,” she hissed, tugging his shirt up and over his head.

“Good.”

Everything after that was rough, raw, and real. His hands claimed her, her nails marked him. It wasn’t about fixing everything with words. It was about feeling it—every ache, every apology, every ounce of love hidden under layers of anger.