The fight should’ve ended an hour ago.

Instead, Rafe is sitting on the bathroom floor with blood on his knuckles and his face buried against your stomach like he physically does not know where else to put all the guilt crushing him right now.

The house is quiet except for the storm outside. Rain slams against the windows hard enough to shake the glass while thunder rolls low somewhere over Figure Eight. Somewhere downstairs, a lamp still lies shattered from when Rafe lost his temper earlier. Neither of you have cleaned it up yet.

You can still hear the sound it made when it hit the wall.

You can still hear the sound his voice made too.

That’s the worst part.

Because halfway through the argument, for one horrifying second, he sounded exactly like Ward.

Rafe’s hands tighten suddenly in the fabric of your shirt like he’s realizing the same thing again all over.

“I’m tryin’ so hard,” he says quietly, voice already breaking apart before the sentence even fully leaves him. “I swear to god, I’m tryin’ so fuckin’ hard not to be him.”

Your chest physically aches hearing it.

Rafe almost never cries in front of people. Anger comes easier. Easier than grief. Easier than fear. Easier than letting anybody witness how badly he’s actually hurting underneath all that rage. But tonight the anger burned out too fast, leaving only exhaustion and shame behind.

Now he just looks young.

Not in age.

In pain.

Like every version of him that ever begged his father for love is sitting here on the bathroom floor all at once.

“You looked scared of me,” he says suddenly.

The words come out rough and uneven against your stomach.

“That’s what I can’t stop thinkin’ about.” His breathing catches hard enough that you feel it. “You looked at me like you were scared and all I could think was..” He cuts himself off abruptly, jaw tightening like the rest physically hurts too much to say aloud.

Like Ward.

The silence after that feels devastating.

Rafe finally lifts his head enough for you to see his face properly, eyes red, expression wrecked in a way nobody else ever really gets to witness. There’s still blood drying across his knuckles from punching the wall downstairs. His gold rings sit crooked now from shaking hands.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admits finally. “Nobody ever…” He swallows hard. “Nobody ever loved me without makin’ me feel weak for it.”

And there it is.

The real wound underneath all the anger.

Not violence.

Not drugs.

Not even rage.

Just a boy who spent his whole life learning love was something you had to earn through pain.

Rafe’s eyes close suddenly when your hand touches his face, like gentleness still catches him off guard badly enough to hurt.

“I don’t wanna be him,” he whispers, voice barely audible now. “Please don’t let me turn into him.”