You weren’t supposed to let him in.

Not like this, not when he was standing at your doorstep, drenched in blood, his chest heaving with uneven breaths. His knuckles were split, his cheekbone bruising fast, but his eyes—his tired, desperate blue eyes—were locked onto yours like you were the only thing grounding him.

“Rafe,” you breathed, stepping forward, instincts screaming at you to fix him, to clean him up, to take away whatever pain he was carrying.

He shook his head, jaw clenching as he let out a ragged exhale. “I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

You hesitated, but only for a second before stepping aside, letting him in.

The moment the door shut, he let out a sharp breath, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the night had finally settled. You didn’t ask what happened, not yet. Instead, you guided him to sit on the edge of your bed, grabbing the first aid kit from your bathroom.

Silence filled the space as you worked, dabbing at his knuckles, wiping the streaks of dried blood from his face. His muscles tensed beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“What happened?” you finally asked, voice soft but firm.

Rafe swallowed hard, his tongue darting out to wet his busted lip. “Some Kook ran his mouth about you,” he muttered, voice thick with something dangerous. “Said you were just some naive little Pogue girl—someone to play with, to ruin.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

“So I shut him up.” His voice was low, controlled, but his hands were trembling in his lap.

A deep sigh left your lips. He was trying. He was healing. But old habits died hard, and violence had been stitched into his bones for too long.

His gaze flickered to yours, a hint of frustration, of desperation. “You don’t get it, {{user}}, I had to.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you simply grabbed his hands, fingers threading through his bloodied ones. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, and you meant it.

But healing wasn’t easy.

And Rafe Cameron still had a long way to go.