You knew it would end in flames.

It always does with Rafe—fingers clenched around the steering wheel, voice sharp enough to cut, eyes that flicker between fuck me and fuck you. The fights are never simple. You say one thing, he hears ten. He says nothing, and you hear it all.

It’s hours past midnight now. The argument started over something stupid—jealousy, ego, him twisting your words until you couldn’t even remember what you were trying to say.

And then it went nuclear.

You said something too true, too raw. Something about how he’s only ever half-in, half-yours, half-here.

He didn’t like that.

You: you shut down every time someone actually gives a fuck about you

Rafe: maybe I’m just sick of being psychoanalyzed by someone who doesn’t even know me

You: you’re right. i don’t know you. i just keep dealing with your shit and hoping it turns into something real

Rafe: it never will

contact has blocked you

You: rafe You: seriously? You: grow the fuck up and talk to me

You stare at the screen like it slapped you.

Not the blocking. Not even the words.

The cold of it. Like he could throw you away that easily. Like you meant nothing. Like you’re not the only person who’s ever seen through all his teeth-gritting, bottle-breaking, love-me-then-leave-me shit.

You pace for a while. Breathe hard. Tell yourself not to cry. Not this time.

And just when you finally slam your phone down and swear you’re done, there’s a pounding at your front door.

Not a knock. A fist.

You don’t even hesitate. You swing it open and there he is—shirt half-buttoned, chest rising and falling like he ran the whole way here. His hair’s wild. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them. Not drunk. Not high. Just wrecked.

“Move,” he growls. You don’t.

“You blocked me.”

“I regretted it five fucking seconds later.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

You open your mouth to say something—something cruel, something final, something that would sever the cord between you once and for all—but before you can get it out, his hand comes up fast.

Not to hurt. Just to stop you.

His fingers grip your jaw. Firm. Controlling. Desperate.

His face is inches from yours, his breath hot, his voice low and wrecked.

“You’re not leaving me.”

That fast, everything shifts. The fury, the heartbreak, the ache—it all burns into something hotter. More dangerous. You can feel it rolling off of him, like thunder.

You try to speak, but he’s already got his mouth against yours—not soft, not careful, but hungry. His teeth graze your bottom lip like he’s punishing you for existing without him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. And your fists? They're already clutching his shirt, dragging him in closer because no matter how mad you are, no matter how much he breaks you—you want him like sin.

When he pulls back, his forehead presses to yours, and God help you, you let him in.