Your whole body relaxed when you reached Rafe’s front door. The anxiety, the body tremors, the increased heart rate, all just settled and you felt a wave of calm move through you. Your body just seemed to know that this was your safe place. This was where you could let down your defences and just breathe. Your hand wrapped around the doorknob and you stepped inside, closing the door behind you.

“Rafe?” You called out, your voice echoing through the empty halls. You paused before making your way to the staircase and taking the steps two at a time. God, you hoped he was home. You needed to be wrapped up in his arms, to listen to his heartbeat as you drifted off to sleep.

Because you hadn’t been sleeping. You could count how many hours you’d slept in the last few days on one hand. You were haunted with images of your attack every time you closed your eyes. Images so visceral it felt like you were right back there, reliving it and you hadn’t figured out a way to chase those memories away on your own. So you’d come here, because even if the two of you were currently off, he gave you a sense of comfort and security you couldn’t find anywhere else.

His bedroom door was ajar, and you slipped inside into the darkness. The only light came from the pale glow of the moon, and it outlined his muscular figure on the bed. His body was turned, facing the wall and you sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Rafe? I just needed to-“ you trail off when he turns to face you, and you see newly forming bruises on his face. Your eyes roam over each mark, moving down to the dried blood on his shirt, all the way down to his bruised and bloodied knuckles. He’d been in a fight, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who he’d been fighting. He’d always been fiercely protective of you. You should’ve known that it would only be a matter of time before he’d tracked down your assailant and gone after him.

He sits up on the bed, eyeing you warily. He knows you were never a fan of his fighting. It had been one of the reasons you two had broken up. But you were his girl, and no one hurt what was his. He’d needed a way to silence the guilt he’d felt for not being there when you’d been attacked. He needed a way to make it better, and using his fists was the only way he knew how.

“He needed to pay” he says, his voice a low growl. There’s still an anger in him that rises when he looks at you and sees the bruises that mar your perfect skin. He hated it. He longs to pull you closer, to wrap you up in his arms tight and not let go, but he waits for your reaction to his words.