The silence after the fight was louder than the shouting. You stood with your back to him, arms tightly folded, chest rising fast—like your heart hadn’t stopped racing since the moment he said those stupid, jealous words.

Rafe sat at the edge of the bed, hunched forward, hands laced behind his neck. “I didn’t mean it,” he muttered, eyes on the floor. “I was scared. You were laughing with him. And all I could think was—what if you realize you deserve better?”

You turned slowly, hurt burning beneath your skin. “I do deserve better,” you said, voice shaking. “But I still choose you. Even when you make it hard.”

That cracked him. He stood and crossed the space, hesitating before touching you—like you might flinch. But when his fingers brushed your jaw, you didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours. “I can’t lose you.”

Your breath caught. And then you kissed him—hard. It was angry, messy, desperate. You pulled at his shirt as he backed you into the wall, lips trailing down your neck, hands hungry to feel something solid—you. His name fell from your lips like a confession when he lifted you, carried you to the bed without breaking the kiss.

Clothes disappeared between kisses and gasps. His hands trembled against your skin, like he was afraid you’d vanish. “I love you,” he said between breaths, like it hurt. “I don’t say it enough. But I do.”

When he was finally inside you, it wasn’t rough—it was slow, intense, worshipful. Like he was making up for every wound, every word. You gripped his back, legs wrapped tight around his waist, breathing his name into his neck. Every thrust said I’m sorry, every kiss said don’t go.

Afterward, tangled in sheets and sweat, he buried his face in your neck. “I’ll be better,” he whispered. “For you.”

And this time, you believed him.