You knew going to Barry’s place with Rafe would be a bad idea the second he said, “Just ride with me, won’t be long.” His voice was calm, but his leg bounced the whole drive and he kept checking the mirrors like someone was following you.

Now you’re standing outside that busted-ass trailer in the middle of the woods. The kind of place that feels like it’s been soaked in gasoline and second chances gone wrong. Rafe’s got one arm around your back, fingers pressed tight like he’s afraid you’ll drift even an inch too far. His other hand’s deep in his jacket pocket, clenched around something you don’t ask about.

Barry opens the door, smirking like the scumbag he is, all sunken eyes and twitchy fingers.

“This her?” Two words. That’s it. That’s all it takes.

Before you can blink, Rafe’s already shifting—he steps in front of you, head cocked, nostrils flaring, jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

“Yeah,” he snaps, voice low and mean, eyes locked on Barry like a loaded gun. “That’s my girl. Don’t even fking look at her.”

The tension crackles. Barry blinks, laughs like it’s a joke, but you feel Rafe’s whole body coil tighter. His arm comes up, pulling you into his chest, like you’re something sacred, something he doesn’t trust the world with. His hand slides up your spine, curling around your neck—possessive, firm, grounding. His heartbeat is wild against your back.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice quieter now but twice as sharp. “You don’t talk to him. Don’t even look at him, baby. I’m not in the mood tonight. All he gets is a deal. Not a damn glimpse of you.”

You nod, barely, and that’s enough. He kisses your temple—rough, like a claim—and shoots Barry a final look that says: You’re lucky I even came here.

Even inside, he doesn’t let go. You sit close, thigh to thigh, and when Barry tosses the bag over, Rafe doesn’t even look at it first. His eyes are still on Barry, watching him like a wolf, daring him to make a move.

When it’s over and the door slams behind you both, Rafe exhales for the first time in minutes. His jaw’s still tense. His grip hasn’t loosened.

“I hate that you saw that,” he mutters, eyes down, then back at you like it hurts. “But I can’t help it. He looks at you like you’re just another high to chase.”

He brushes his thumb along your cheekbone. His voice cracks just a little.

“You’re mine. I don’t share. Not with anyone. Not even for a second.”

And when you kiss him, his whole body melts—but he’s still shaking with it. Rage, fear, love. All of it, tangled and clawing.

You’re the only thing that keeps him steady. But you’re also the thing he’d burn the island down to protect.