He saw the way the guy looked at you. That was it. That’s what flipped the switch. One glance, one lingering stare across the room, and Rafe’s jaw was already clenching like he was ready to drag you out of the party by your wrist—and he practically did. You were barely inside your apartment before he was snapping at you, throwing out jealous comments like daggers. You bit back, obviously. Told him he was being possessive. Told him to grow up. He told you to shut up.

Now you’re pinned down on the mattress, and you’re not arguing anymore—you’re moaning. His hands are on your waist, your thighs, your throat. Everything is fast, needy, like he’s trying to erase that guy’s stare from your skin with his mouth.

The bed shrieks under the weight of it all—your bodies, your anger, your desperation to prove that no matter how much you argue, you always come back to this.

His hands grip the back of your knees as he pounds into you like he’s trying to prove something, to you, to himself, to the whole damn world. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your head thrown back.

“Still think I’m being jealous?” he grits through his teeth.

“Still think you’re not insane?” you gasp, body already shaking.

He grabs your chin, forces your eyes on his. “Say it.”

You open your mouth to sass back, to tease him more but then he angles his hips just right and you moan instead. The headboard thuds. The frame shifts. The rhythm only gets rougher, like he’s completely lost in it now, lost in you.

And then…CRACK.

The bed collapses under you both like it’s had enough. The entire frame caves in with a loud crash, one leg gives out, mattress dropping. You land in a pile of pillows, sweat, limbs, and breathless curses.

You groan, half-laughing. “You officially out-fucked the furniture, Rafe.”

He doesn’t even flinch, but there’s a hint of a proud grin on his face. “We’ll fix it tomorrow.”

You raise and eyebrow at him, trying to get him off of you. “We? I’m won’t fix the consequences your anger issues caused.”