The arguing below is muffled, but it still bleeds into your room like poison. Your expression is vacant, distant. He’s been talking for the last few minutes, trying to pull you back, but it’s clear none of it is landing.

“You wanna go for a drive?” The jingle of car keys pulls you out of your own head as Rafe twirls them around his finger, brow raised questioningly. There’s no room to protest—he’s already pulling you toward the bedroom door.

Your parents had invited him over tonight, playing nice at first: polite questions, tight smiles, performative interest in your life. But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show. Soon they were talking over you, at you, throwing digs masked as jokes. Then the talking turned into yelling, and suddenly everybody was screaming at one another. Rafe sat there seething behind his calm facade, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

If he could hardly stomach being in their presence for one measly meal, how had you managed to do it your whole life?

He’d brushed it off the first few times you warned him—your family, the arguments, all the other bullshit. Every time, he gave you the same soft, dismissive reply: “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” But now, after sitting through that mess of a dinner, he gets it. He really gets it.

Even if he doesn’t show it that well, he hates when you get like this—quiet, withdrawn, small—and it’s all because of your damn family. The apple couldn’t have fallen farther from the tree if it tried.

You watch the houses blur past, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes.

Rafe glances over. “You good?”

It’s a dumb question. He knows you’re not. But it’s his way of giving you space—inviting you to say something if you want, or to stay quiet if you need.

“We don’t have to talk ‘bout it,” he adds softly. “We can just sit in silence.”