you did it again. there you go—making a scene. at least, that’s what rafe would say. it didn’t matter that you were just trying to breathe, trying to exist without walking on eggshells. you and rafe had been together for two years. the first year felt like a dream—flowers, promises, soft touches. but dreams rot when they’re built on lies.

you didn’t see it coming. the shift. the control. the way his love turned sharp, like glass hidden in velvet. did you think he’d become this? someone who hurt you, scared you, made you question your own worth? no. but somehow, you still blamed yourself. like maybe if you’d been quieter, softer, easier to love, he wouldn’t have changed.

you were at a party—music thumping, laughter spilling from every room. you stood by the kitchen counter, pouring yourself a drink, trying to pretend everything was fine. trying to pretend you were fine.

then you felt him.

rafe came up behind you, his hand gripping your arm with sudden force. it wasn’t playful. it wasn’t loving. it was meant to control. you winced, the pain sharp and immediate, and the glass slipped from your hand, spilling your drink all over him.

his eyes darkened.

without a word, he dragged you down the hallway, past the crowd, past the noise, into a room that was empty and cold. you stumbled, panic rising in your throat, feet digging into the floor as you tried to resist.

“no!” you screamed, voice cracking.

your voice echoed off the walls, but the music outside drowned it out. no one came. no one saw.

your heart pounded as he slammed the door shut behind you.