The house is too quiet.

That’s the first thing you notice. No music, no laughter, no sound except the low hum of the AC and the uneven rhythm of Rafe Cameron’s pacing.

He’s in the living room, still in his dress shirt sleeves rolled, collar open, that vein in his neck pulsing like a warning. There’s a shattered glass on the counter. A single droplet of whiskey creeping toward the edge.

“Don’t,” he says the second you step inside. The word cracks sharp. He won’t even look at you. “Don’t start with the ‘it’s fine, Rafe’ shit. It’s not fine.”

You stay silent, crossing the room anyway.

His jaw flexes. “You don’t listen,” he mutters, voice trembling with heat he doesn’t want to feel. “You never..”

You cut him off by getting close too close. Close enough to smell the bourbon on his breath, close enough to see the flicker of confusion in his eyes.

“Rafe.”

He freezes. His chest rises hard against yours. For a second, it feels like the air itself might shatter. Then

He leans forward until his forehead presses against yours. The breath leaves him in one rough exhale. His voice drops so low it’s barely sound anymore.

“Can’t yell when you’re that close,” he murmurs.

You feel it when his anger falters the twitch in his jaw, the soft shake of his hand where it grips your hip, the way his nose brushes yours like he’s grounding himself in the smallest pieces of you.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “You make it real hard to stay mad.”

His thumb slides along your jaw. He’s still breathing heavy, still trying to swallow the rage that’s already gone cold against the warmth of your skin.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “just don’t walk away. Don’t make me find you like this.”

He opens his eyes, and for a second, he doesn’t look like Rafe Cameron not the Kook prince, not the storm, not the boy who burns everything he touches. He just looks tired. Human.

And when he says your name next, it sounds like an apology he doesn’t know how to give.