As far back as you could remember, Rafe had always been stubborn to a fault. He hated being told no—by anyone, but especially by you. And lately, he’d been relentless, pushing and pushing until something snapped between you both.

It wasn’t a huge fight, but it left you angry enough to ignore his calls. Rafe didn’t handle silence well. He hated it. So naturally, he tried to fix things the way he knew best—with grand gestures. You weren’t surprised when you found your favorite coffee waiting on your porch this morning, still hot. Or when he left a small note tucked in your jacket pocket, written in his messy scrawl: “I messed up. Let me fix it.”

You ignored him all day. Until now.

Rafe was waiting for you when you walked into your room. His back was to the window, arms crossed, jaw clenched—the way he always got when he was overthinking. "You done being mad at me yet?" His voice was low, smooth, but there was a flicker of something softer underneath.

You didn't answer, just crossed your arms and leaned against the doorframe, your expression giving nothing away. He sighed, running a hand through his hair before stepping closer, slow and deliberate. "I’m serious. I hate when we fight."

His hands found your waist, tugging you gently toward him. You stiffened, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in, brushing his nose along your temple. “Don’t shut me out like this,” he murmured, his lips barely grazing your skin. “You’re my girl. You know that.”

You tried to hold firm, to keep your walls up. But the way he whispered “I’m sorry” into your ear, the way his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his chest—it chipped away at your resolve. Rafe pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing across your cheek. His voice dropped, quiet and pleading. “Just tell me what I gotta do to make it right.” And damn it, he knew exactly how to break you.