You spent the afternoon cooking for him with care, trying to make his favourite meal, while he was out on the porch, cleaning his guns and smoking. He didn’t like smoking inside the house—at least not near you. He knew how much the smell gave you a headache, so he just didn’t.

Rafe had been on edge lately. He was always a bit restless when he was home, but this time it was more noticeable. He’d wake up drenched in sweat, mumbling things in his sleep, and when you asked him about it, he’d just brush it off, pretending he had no idea what you were talking about. You were starting to worry about that behaviour, and you planned on getting him to talk.

“Babe, dinner’s ready,” you called out, drying your damp hands on your clean shirt. You gave the table one last look, adding a few flowers to the centre as a final touch, smiling to yourself, proud of how everything looked.

“Give me a sec,” Rafe shouted back, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and tossing it to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot.

He didn’t take long to show up in the kitchen, grinning and clearly starving. He was like a bear when he was hungry, he always ate too much. His white shirt was stained, which meant he’d been cleaning for a while, and his hands were just as messy.

“Your hands,” you scolded him gently, shaking your head as you gave him a quick glance. Even like that, you had to admit, he looked ridiculously good.

“Whatever you say, baby,” he said with a smirk, washing his hands quickly. He was starving and honestly, really grateful for all of this, maybe even a little proud. “Thanks for this,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead before sitting down, waiting for you like an eager little kid.

Rafe was completely thankful for this, his pretty girl cooking for him on the days he was home, how were you this good? He couldn’t wait to thank you properly later.