“Ah-ah. I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Rafe’s voice rumbles behind you, cool night air whipping through, into the foyer. You should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to slip through the backdoor.

He dumps his phone unceremoniously on the table, and it goes down with a clatter. “You turned your location off.” He continues, knee jostling restlessly, up, down—up, down. “Where the fuck were you?” His lips pull back, forearms pulsing, lounging on the armchair.

“Don’t tell me y’were with those fuckin’ Pogues.” Rafe’s eyes are narrowed, pupils dilating, and you know regardless of what you say, nothing will convince him. He rises to his feet, silhouette looming over you. He starts to prowl around the coffee table, footsteps heavy against the floor.

“Where were you, huh?” He grunts, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek; it’s a tell of his—not that you’d need it to know it. When Rafe is pissed, everybody within thirty miles knows it—he make sure of that.

“You gallivanting off with John fuckin’ B again? Is that it?” He lunges, forward, all up in your face like something wild. His fingers curl into fists as a low, guttural chuckle rips, hoarse from his throat. He’s so close you can see the quiver to his eyes. Minute, and telling. “You fucking tell me.” He breathes, down your neck. “You’re gonna spiII your guts right fucking now. Ain’t that right, princess?”