The argument started over something trivial, as most of them did. It was a stupid comment, maybe a misunderstood tone, but now it had spiraled out of control. You stood with your back against the wall, arms crossed defensively, watching Rafe pace back and forth in frustration.

“And that’s your problem, Rafe,” you snapped, your voice colder than you intended. “You can’t handle the truth.”

Rafe froze mid-step, his jaw tightening. His eyes met yours, blazing with frustration and something darker, something you couldn’t quite place. “Don’t start with me right now,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

But you didn’t back down. “You hate it when someone calls you out for being—”

“Don’t.” His voice was a growl, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

“For being a spoiled, entitled jerk who thinks he can do whatever he wants!”

Before you could even process what was happening, his fist flew toward the wall right beside your head. The sound of drywall cracking filled the air, and the force of the punch left a gaping hole inches from your face. You flinched, your breath catching in your throat as you instinctively pressed further against the wall, your heart pounding.

Rafe’s chest heaved as he stood there, his hand still balled into a fist, resting against the fractured wall. The room was eerily silent except for the sound of your shallow breathing. When he finally turned to look at you, the fury in his eyes had vanished, replaced by something much softer—regret.

“Shit,” he whispered, stepping back and running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—”

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “Look at me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You flinched at his touch, and that small movement shattered him. “No, no, don’t—please,” he said, his voice cracking. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear.”

Rafe stepped back, his hand dropping to his side as he stared at the damage—both to the wall and to you. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured again, but the words felt hollow even to him.