rafe got used to it.

and it’s… unnerving.

you’re here. right there. you stayed. you weren’t supposed to go at him like you knew him. you weren’t supposed to deal with it, sort it out, and just walk away like anyone else would. but you did. and it felt like a leash, you know? not one you’d tighten—never one to hold him down—but he never grew up either.

so what’s the problem? him? or you? rafe tried to figure it out. tried to make sense of it. nothing came through. now he’s stuck, and you’re the only one who could pull him out. and yeah, he wanted to run. but how, when you became… this? his everything.

he slammed his fist on the table. hard. the wood shook, rattling your things. the cake slid sideways, the gifts tipped over, plates shattered across the surface— he shoved them all off the edge in one quick motion, not caring where they landed, and for a second he just stared at the mess he’d made, chest rising and falling too fast.

then he stood up. the muscles in his jaw tightening, his hands trembling slightly as he jabbed a finger toward your way—not hard, not to hurt, but precise enough to mark his point as his eyes flicked to yours, sharp and unguarded at the same time, and the way he swallowed, like he had to pull his words from somewhere deep in his throat, made it clear he was barely keeping himself in check.

“you’re not going,” he said, low, clipped. there was a twitch in his voice, a quick rise and fall, “end of story.”