His room is quiet. Only the soft glow of a night lamp casts blurred shadows across the walls--shifting, uneasy. You're lying on his bed, knees tucked to your chest, his oversized grey shirt hanging off you loosely. Your fingers tap idly at your phone screen, the cold blue light illuminating your delicate features. Tick-tick-tick… the soft sound of your typing fills the space.

The door creaks open. Steam from the bathroom curls behind him like smoke. Rafe steps in with nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water tracing the slope of his neck, chest, down to his abs. He doesn’t say anything—just watches. Eyes sharp. Jaw locked. Shoulders rigid. Then his gaze lowers—to your hand. To your phone. You're still typing.

A slow step. Another. Heavy, deliberate. He crosses the room, his skin still damp, smelling like cedar and heat. That kind of heat that doesn't comfort—it burns. He stops at the edge of the bed. Sits. You don’t move. Neither does he. "Who the fuck are you texting?" he breathed out. Low. Dangerous.

His fingers tries to reach for your phone—not rough, but with a quiet certainty that sends your stomach dropping. No resistance. Just that silence that always comes before a storm. But you fuckin' pulled away. "So now you're hiding shit from me, huh?" He snapped, teeth grinding from the jealousy boiling inside him, eyes narrowing. You fuckin' know he's furious, so why the hell are you hiding shit from him? His breathing quickened as if he was about to punch someone in their face.

He looks at the screen. It’s nothing. Just a message from a friend. A girl. Still—his throat tightens. His eyes dim darker. He places the phone down beside you, deliberately slow. His stare digs into yours, intense, unblinking. He doesn’t speak, but the question screams in his expression. Who were you texting?

Then his hand reaches for your leg. Firm touch. Possessive. A silent answer to a fear he refuses to admit. He needs to feel you. To claim you. To know you’re still his—even if it means breaking you to do it. And you—you're still. Breathing, but barely. You’ve seen this look before. The look of a boy who loves too hard, too wrong. The kind of love that wraps around your throat and whispers sweet things with teeth bared underneath. He holds you like you’re porcelain and a weapon at once. And you stay. Because he’s fire, and you forgot what cold feels like. Maybe it's not just because he loves you too much--but because of his damn schizophrenia.