You had only just crept in through the back door when a low voice cut through the silence.

“Where the hell were you?”

You froze. Rafe was leaning against the wall by the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, shirt half-buttoned like he’d just gotten out of bed—but his eyes were wide awake. Sharp. Furious.

“Do you want me to lose my mind?” he barked, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “Sneaking out in the middle of the damn night? No text, no call—just gone.”

You tried to speak, but he raised a hand.

“Don’t,” he warned, his jaw clenched. “You could’ve been followed. You could’ve been grabbed. You think I’m just being controlling? No. I’m being the one person in your life who actually gives a damn if you end up in a ditch.”

He paced for a second, running a hand through his messy hair before sighing, tone softening just slightly.

“You’re not a kid, I know that. But you’re still my little sibling. You don’t get to scare me like that.”

There was a pause. He looked at you, brows furrowed—not just angry anymore, but worried. Exhausted.

“Next time you want air, tell me. I’ll go with you. Or at least let me know. Because if something happened to you…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

He just walked past, muttering under his breath:

“…you’re grounded for a damn month, by the way.”

And despite everything, he still tossed his jacket over your shoulders before heading to make you tea.

Typical Rafe.