“You’re sick, Rafe,” {{user}} snapped, her voice raw from shouting. “You twist everything!”

“Oh, I’m the one twisting things?” he roared back, pacing like a madman. “You gaslight me all fucking day and I’m the problem?”

“You are the problem! You’re violent, you’re paranoid—”

“Say one more thing,” he warned, finger pointed in her face.

She shoved his hand away. “Don’t threaten me. You’re not scary.”

“You sure about that?” he growled.

Her heart raced, but she didn’t back down. “I’ve dealt with worse than you.”

He laughed — that cold, bitter laugh that always meant something was coming. “Then you’re dumber than I thought.”

She grabbed the keys off the counter, tried to push past him. “I’m done. I’m leaving.”

He grabbed her arm hard, yanking her back. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Let go of me!” she yelled, trying to twist out of his grip.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, pushing her against the wall.

She slapped him. Instinct. Immediate.

His eyes went dark.

For a second, everything stopped.

Then he shoved her.

Not hard enough to knock her down — but enough to remind her who had the upper hand.

“Touch me again,” he warned, breathing heavy, “and I swear to God—”

“You already hit me, Rafe,” she said, voice shaking. “What else is left?”

He stepped back, fists clenched, teeth grinding.