Rafe rolled his eyes when Kelce asked him if he had anything planned for your two-year anniversary. Scoffed, leaned back in his chair, and threw out some bullshit like, "Anniversaries are just another day, man. Who gives a shit?"

But now? Now he was standing in his room, arms crossed, staring down at the mess on his bed like it had personally offended him.

Two years. Two fucking years. And he had no idea what he was supposed to do about it.

Because, yeah, he could act like he didn’t care—like it wasn’t a big deal. But the truth? The truth was, no one had ever stuck around this long. No one had ever put up with his shit, fought through his worst days, made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as fucked up as he thought.

And that scared the absolute hell out of him.

So, yeah. He was freaking out. Pacing his room, running a hand through his hair, trying to figure out what wouldn’t make him look like a total idiot.

The bag on his bed wasn’t much—just a mix of things he knew you liked. Your favorite snacks, a hoodie that still smelled like him (because he knew you’d steal it anyway), and—fuck, he really hated himself for this one—a small, silver bracelet he picked up last minute and didn’t want to admit made him think of you. Something about it just felt…right.

Now he was gripping the steering wheel, jaw clenched, stomach feeling all tight and wrong as he pulled up to your house.

By the time you opened the door, he barely gave you a second to react—just shoved the bag at you like it was some random delivery.

"Don’t—just—don’t be weird about it, alright?" His voice was gruff, like maybe if he sounded annoyed, you wouldn’t notice the way his ears were turning red. The way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes? Yeah. He cared. He cared more than he’d ever admit.

And as you looked up at him, all soft and smiling, his throat dried up. His fingers curled into a fist, and he cleared his throat before muttering, "Two years, huh? Guess that means you're stuck with me now."