As far back as you could remember, Rafe was always the type to fix his problems with his wallet. You know he could be a prick most of the time, but even you had to admit: he knew how to make a good-ass apology basket.

It was a stupid fight. He knows that. He feels like an utter jackass. Rafe had been in a mood all week, snappy and irritable and just pissed off. You’d had a small argument over something that was so painfully stupid, but he wouldn’t back down. He is an utter jackass of a boyfriend sometimes— but that comes with dating him, though he knows it isn’t an excuse for being shitty to you.

He’s already sent you an armfuls of flowers (too much, nearly enough to turn your house into a funeral home if he kept going.) You were also sure you’d caught a whiff of his stupid cologne lingering in your room from when he’d snuck over to leave you gifts with little notes of ’I’m sorry’ and ’I thought you’d like it’.

Yeah, he was trying.

It didn’t stop him, however, from attempting to push the envelopes and catch your lips in his, whenever you tried to evade and twist away, arms still stiff and crossed across your chest.

“C’mon.” that infuriatingly smooth, drawl dropped an octave. Rafe’s hands planted themselves on the counter behind you, trapping you between his broad chest and iron-cut arms. “Babyyyy."

His nose, ever so often, bumped against your head as he tried to find an opening in your defences, lips barely brushed against your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose—as if tempting you to lift your hands up and pull him into a kiss.

But you held firm, gaze determined—lips stubbornly clamped shut, chin tipped defiantly. “none’a that, baby — c’mon. gimme another kiss.” He grumbled, using just one hand to hold your cheeks with a little squeeze, warm breath fanning against your face.