The argument started over something trivial—whose turn it was to pick dinner, a misplaced phone charger, something so minor that it should’ve been resolved in a second. But with Rafe, minor things always had a way of spiraling into something bigger. His frustration flared quickly, words coming faster, tone sharper.

“You never listen, do you?” he snapped, slamming his hand on the table. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and jarring, and your body instinctively reacted. You flinched, stepping back as your breath hitched in your throat.

Rafe’s piercing blue eyes caught the movement immediately, and for a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. His frustration twisted into something else—something darker, more unsettling. “What? Are you scared or something?” he sneered, his voice low but cutting.

You froze, the air growing thick around you. His words barely registered, drowned out by the flood of memories that surged forward. Two years ago felt like yesterday. His hands on your neck, the white-knuckled grip as he drove recklessly with you crying in the passenger seat, the way the water had filled your lungs as you fought to stay above the surface—every moment replayed in your mind like a nightmare on a loop.

He noticed the way your eyes widened, the way your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. “Oh, come on,” he said, softer this time but still defensive. “I didn’t even—” His words faltered as he saw the look on your face, the way your body tensed as if preparing for a blow that wasn’t coming.

For a moment, silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Rafe ran a hand through his hair, stepping back from the table as his anger began to ebb, replaced by a creeping sense of guilt. “I’m not that guy anymore,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “You know that, right?”

But the words felt hollow against the weight of your memories. You swallowed hard, unwilling to meet his gaze as you stood there, wondering if you would ever truly believe him.