Rafe was mid-rampage—eyes wild, jaw locked, voice raised as he squared up against some Pogue guy who happened to walk past him. Topper was trying uselessly to pull him back, shouting how the guy didn't do anything, but that didn’t really matter.

He was always looking for a fight. And then, he would get worked up fast, snap like a dry twig, and lash out before he could think better of it. Nothing stopped him. Not his friends, not the promise of serious consequences, not the sheer logic of walking away before he got himself hurt by a guy bigger than him.

Until you.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t beg. You didn’t try to wrestle him back or beg him to calm down like everyone else did.

You just said his name.

Firm, but even. That was all.

“Rafe.”

And just like that, he went still.

One second he was in this guy’s face, fingers curling into fists. The next, he was turning his head, looking for you. His shoulders were still tense, his breathing still sharp, but his eyes found yours, and something in them softened—just a little.

You tilted your head, waiting.

The seconds stretched. The whole crowd felt like it was holding its breath.

Then Rafe exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he’d almost lost it again. He stepped back. The guy he’d been about to kill took the opportunity to disappear into the crowd, and Rafe didn't even see.

He only saw you.

And just like that, he was at your side, like a well-trained guard dog returning to heel.

Topper blinked at you like you’d performed an exorcism. "What the fuck was that?”

You just shrugged, reaching up to smooth a hand over Rafe’s hair like he hadn’t just been two seconds away from breaking someone’s nose. “He listens to me.”

Rafe let out a breath, still shaking off the anger, but his shaky hands found your waist, grounding himself in your touch. “Shut the fuck up, Top,” he muttered, pressing his face into your neck.