You swore he loved you. Or at least—you thought he did. Didn’t he?

Or was it just the way he watched you—like a man starved. The way his gaze scalded, sharp as a cigarette burn. How he studied you, meticulously, as though you were something holy and broken all at once. Like a stained-glass saint that only he could shatter and remake in his own jagged image.

Rafe didn’t say “I love you” with words. No, he showed it—with clenched fists and midnight apologies, bruised promises and blood-stained lullabies.

You learned his language quickly. The way he’d grab your wrist a second too tight—“don’t walk away from me.” The way his voice would rise, fraying at the edges, accusing, wild—“who else were you texting?” The way his love flared violent, incandescent, like a struck match too close to your skin.

Your friends—godsends in their own right—told you to leave him. “He’s unhinged,” they said. “He’s hurting you.” “You’re not stupid, but if you stay—you’ll die that way.”

But they didn’t know him. Not like you did.

They didn’t know what it felt like to be seen so fully by someone so cruel. They didn’t know how his rage always came after the quiet moments. The intimacy. The brush of his knuckles against your cheek in the dark, the rare softness of his breath against your collarbone.

They didn’t see how carefully he wrapped your injuries—how he murmured his justifications like hymns. “You made me do it. I can’t help it when I care this much.”

And you—god help you—you believed it.

He made your nose bleed once. Not a nosebleed—a gush, red and warm, painting the bathroom tiles like a Rothko. Another time, he twisted your arm until the bone nearly cracked. Three glasses thrown your way in one night. The shatter still echoes in your ears when you’re alone.

But still, still, you curled into him like a child—seeking comfort in the monster’s chest. Burrowed beneath his chin, face aching, ribs tight, his fingers trailing slow, reverent circles down your spine.

That was the most dangerous part.

Because he knew. He knew you would break without the balm of nightfall. So he gave you just enough softness to keep you from leaving.

Those nights? Those were your tether. Your gravity. Your quiet reprieve from the chaos of daylight.

And every morning you woke up, somehow grateful for the pain—because it meant he hadn’t left. Because if he was angry, it meant he cared. Because if he hit you, it meant you mattered.

He would kiss the bruise after the blow, run his thumb over it like he was sculpting a new version of you. Better. Quieter. Obedient. “I didn’t mean it, you know that, right?”

He hit you like it was a ritual. He hit you like it was a benediction. He hit you and it felt like a kiss.