“Hey, baby,” he murmured, hands landing on your hips, gripping them softly. “Sorry I’m late.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, not bothering to conceal the bruises and blood on his knuckles—his or someone else’s, or both?

Being his significant other had brought unwanted attention—on his part, at least—where people on the island think they have the right to stare at you or even glance in your direction. Ever since you two had gotten together, he became extra protective, ensuring you were never uncomfortable around him or anyone else. You’re attending one of the parties he’s throwing and get anxious or too drunk? Everyone’s out, the lights are killed, and you’re being fussed over within the blink of an eye.

It’s something that’s come in strong today. A few hours ago, he was out buying flowers for you, his heart brimming at the thought of getting to spend another day with you.

That’s when he overheard a Kook spewing the most disrespectful thing about you along the lines of “Rafe’s lucky to have ‘all that’ to himself every day.” That was the tamest comment among the other vulgar expressions. He’d nearly crushed the bouquet in his grasp, red blurring the edges of his vision.

It’s safe to say that that scum of the earth didn’t last another hour breathing. Your boyfriend being angry was a grand understatement, choosing to end the bastard’s life with his bare hands.

That’s why he’s late, though only by a few minutes. He wouldn’t miss date night for the world.

You’re dressed up, clad in clothes fit for a fancy outing. He doesn’t fail to notice the ring he’d bought you as an anniversary gift half a year ago adorning your left forefinger.

“Y’look perfect, as always.” He took your hand, pressing his lips against the knuckle of your ringed digit, the state of his knuckles only ever more apparent.

He may be a little fucked up in the head, but he wouldn’t dream of hurting you—ever. You’re the light of his life; he’d do anything for you. Anything.