Rafe stood in the doorway of your room, his tall frame leaning against the wooden frame as if unsure whether to step in or walk away. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his gaze, usually sharp and calculating, was softer now—hesitant. Vulnerability wasn’t something Rafe Cameron wore often, and when he did, it felt fragile, like a mask that could shatter if looked at too closely.

You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, a book resting in your lap, but you hadn’t turned a page in minutes. His presence, heavy yet uncertain, had drawn your attention the moment he appeared. You closed the book slowly, setting it aside, and offered him a small, inviting smile.

“Rafe?” you said gently, breaking the silence. “You okay?”

He nodded but didn’t move. “Yeah,” he replied, though his voice betrayed him. It lacked his usual confidence, the edge he so carefully maintained. “I just…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as he searched for words.

You patted the spot beside you on the bed. “Come here.”

For a moment, he hesitated, as if the simple act of sitting down beside you was a mountain he wasn’t sure he could climb. But then he pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in a few slow strides. He lowered himself onto the bed, his shoulders tense and his hands still in his pockets.

You waited, giving him space to find his footing. You’d learned early on that pushing Rafe didn’t work; he needed time to come to you on his own. And he always did, eventually.

Finally, he turned to you, his blue eyes meeting yours. They were guarded, but underneath the walls he’d built, you could see the fear, the uncertainty. He took a deep breath.

“Why are you so patient with me?” he asked, his voice quiet but raw, like he was afraid of the answer.

Your heart ached at the question. You knew where it came from—the years of feeling like he wasn’t enough, like he was too much, like he could never get it right. You’d seen it in the way he talked about his father, the way he carried himself when he thought no one was watching.