You didn’t know what made your stomach drop first—the sound of flesh hitting flesh, or the sight of Rafe slamming some guy against the hood of a car, his fist connecting with his jaw so hard you could swore you felt it.

“Rafe!” you snapped, but he didn’t stop.

The guy—some loudmouth from the party earlier—was barely holding himself up, blood dripping from his nose. But Rafe wasn’t finished. His grip was tight in the guy’s shirt, his knuckles already split open as he reeled back again.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You grabbed Rafe’s arm before he could throw another punch. “Enough.”

His breath was heavy, his body still coiled with rage, but at your touch, he stilled. His eyes flickered down to your hand on his arm, then up to your face.

You swallowed hard. “Let him go.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening for a second—like he was debating ignoring you entirely.

Then, with a sharp exhale, he let go. The guy crumpled to the pavement, groaning.

You didn’t even spare him a glance, kept your eyes on Rafe, yout heart still racing. “What the hell was that?”

Rafe wiped the blood from his hand onto his jeans, voice calm. “He put his hands on you.”

You froze. “What?”

Rafe’s eyes darkened. “Back at the party.”

You exhaled sharply. “You’re insane.”