The air tastes like rain and recklessness. The windows are thrown open to the pitch-black of the inlet, curtains whipping like broken flags. Rafe’s standing by the sliding door, jacket half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, the cheap bourbon glass in his hand catching the lightning in quick, dangerous flashes.

He turns when you come in, jaw doing that tight thing it does before he loses temper or keeps it in you never can tell which. There’s a cut on his knuckle that’s still raw; his voice has a snap to it when he finally speaks.

“You left.” It’s not a question. It never is with him.

You open your mouth to answer, and he cuts you off with a half laugh that’s mostly anger. “Do you know how stupid that looks? Walkin’ off like you don’t owe me a damn thing.” He steps closer too close breath hot, rain-slick hair clinging at his neck.

Something in you takes the defensiveness out of his hands. You try to explain, to make it small, but he’s already moving, closing the space until your chests nearly touch. His fingers find the small of your back with a possessive, automatic ease.

Rafe’s eyes flash, and he says it flat, the kind of sentence that drops like a match in a barrel

“Tell me right now do you love me? ’Cause I’ll burn it all down if you don’t.”

It hits like thunder: pure threat and, beneath it, the only honest thing he’ll ever say without armor. You can feel his pulse against his throat as he waits for you to answer, the way his whole body waits as if your word could steady the entire storm inside him.

For a beat, silence expands the ocean, the rain, the hum of the storm-sick house. Then his expression cracks, like plaster giving way, and his voice goes quieter, ragged with something that’s not all fury.

“Say it,” he breathes. “Say it and mean it. I’m tired of pretendin’ I don’t care.” His forehead dips toward yours, breath mingling, eyes burning with an ache so sharp it could bleed. “Say it and don’t walk away from me like I’m just another one of your mistakes.”

If you say it if you tell him you love him the hurricane doesn’t subside so much as settle in, all wind folded into a single, fierce hold. His lips press against your temple like an apology and a promise. He’ll be possessive still, yes; loud and dramatic and territorial but softer in the corners you alone know how to reach.

If you don’t if you hesitate, or duck, or say anything that isn’t the thing he’s demanding the storm will look like it’s going to tear down everything in the house. He’ll storm out, he’ll make threats he doesn’t mean, he’ll hurt himself with smoke and fists because he doesn’t know another way to feel the ache. But even then, he won’t be able to go far without thinking of you.

Because the truth is always there under the danger: Rafe would burn it all down for you not out of cruelty, but because the alternative losing you is worse than ash.

Your name on his lips is the only thing that will ever calm him. Say it, and watch the hurricane become a harbor violent, alive, and wholly yours.