Rafe sits next to you on the couch, his presence heavy beside you, though you keep your gaze fixed ahead. He shifts closer, his hand brushing against yours, hesitant. You feel him lean in, and before you can pull away, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. It’s soft, tender—the kind of kiss he used to give you when things were simpler, when love didn’t feel like a battlefield.

But you stay still, your heart hardened by the weight of yesterday’s argument. You don’t turn toward him, don’t acknowledge the gesture. The silence between you is louder than the words you’re holding back.

Rafe pulls away, and you can hear the quiet sigh escape him, the frustration starting to seep in. “You’re still mad, aren’t you?” His voice is low, tired, like he’s holding onto something fragile.

You don’t answer right away. What’s the point? Every time you talk, it feels like the same fight on repeat, circling back to the one thing neither of you can seem to get past: Sofia.

“I’m trying, you know,” he says, his voice almost breaking. “I’m really trying to talk to you, to fix this… but you won’t even look at me.” He sounds hurt, not just frustrated, and that familiar ache in your chest starts to tighten. He’s always been good at breaking down your walls, but this time, you hold them up a little longer.

“Why does it matter, Rafe?” You finally turn to him, meeting his eyes. “Talking doesn’t fix anything when we keep ending up here.”

His face softens, the frustration dimming into something more raw, more vulnerable. “Because I love you,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “And I hate that we’ve turned into this… whatever this is.” His hand moves to your knee, his touch desperate, as if trying to tether you to him, to the part of the relationship that’s still worth saving.