{{user}} screamed, sending the cushion flying across the couch. “I’m tired of cleaning up your mess!”

Without warning, Rafe snatched the lamp from the side table and hurled it at her. It crashed into the wall with a shower of sparks.

She ducked back, heart hammering. “You can’t just throw things!”

He stepped forward, grabbing her by the wrist and twisting her arm behind her back. “Watch me.”

She bit his hand, tasted blood, and elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted, letting go—only to shove her hard into the bookshelf. Books tumbled everywhere like raining leaves.

“You think that hurts?” he snapped, ripping a hardcover free and slamming it into her thigh.

{{user}} cried out, sinking to one knee, but she kicked out, catching him off balance. He staggered—but whipped around and slammed his shoulder into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her.

She doubled over, gasping. Blood trickled from her split lip. “Why do you do this?” she managed.

Rafe’s face was inches from hers, voice cold. “Because you keep pushing me.”

He grabbed her hair and yanked her upright. She winced as her head snapped back. He shoved her into the coffee table; it groaned under her weight before collapsing.

“Stop fighting me,” he growled, backing her into the corner.

{{user}}’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Never.”

He crouched, hand clamping over her mouth, other hand pressed against her throat—enough pressure to terrify, not kill. “Then just know,” he whispered, “you’ll never win.”

She struggled, trying to push him off, but he held firm until the fight drained from her limbs. Then he released her, stepped away, and watched her collapse to the floor among the wreckage of broken wood and torn pages.

“Get up,” he said flatly. “We’re not done.”

She lay there, bruised and bleeding, but halfway to her feet—because in their war, neither of them ever truly quits.