It starts with a fight.

A real one. Not the teasing bickering, not the playful eye rolls—a fight. Loud, sharp, ugly.

“You always do this,” you spit, pacing the room, voice shaking with anger. With frustration. With hurt. “You push and push, and when I finally break, you act like I’m the problem!”

Rafe scoffs, running a hand through his hair, jaw clenching. He looks just as wrecked as you feel. Wild. Furious. Beautiful.

“Maybe because you never fucking listen!” His voice is raw, loud enough to make your chest tighten. “You act like I don’t care—like I don’t fucking worship the ground you walk on—”

You let out a sharp laugh, bitter, cruel. “Oh, that’s rich, Rafe.”

His eyes darken. “Careful.”

You want to be careful. But you’re too angry, too emotional, too—

“Or what?” you challenge, stepping closer. “You’ll yell? You’ll break something? You’ll—”

His hands are on you before you can finish.

Gripping your face, pulling you in, crashing his mouth against yours.

The argument doesn’t end—it shifts. Becomes something hotter, deeper, messier. His lips taste like venom and desperation, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you there, grounding you.

“You make me crazy,” he growls against your mouth, breath ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His hands roam, gripping, claiming. “Swear to God, you ruin me.”

“You deserve it,” you whisper back, fingers curling into his shirt, yanking him closer. Needing him closer.

Rafe smirks. “Yeah?”

And then he’s gone—just for a second, just enough to make you chase him, make you want him even more.

The fire is still there, still burning between you, but it’s not anger anymore. It’s something hotter, heavier. Something you can’t fight.

His hands slide down your body, his lips everywhere, and suddenly, you don’t care what you were fighting about.

Not when he’s looking at you like this.

Not when he’s touching you like this.

Not when he’s yours.