The streetlights cast a dim glow over the empty road as you enter Rafe’s house, knuckles red and ribs aching from another fight. Rafe stands with arms crossed, frustration and concern etched on his face.

“Again?” he asks sharply.

“Not now, Rafe,” you reply, brushing past him.

He follows you into the kitchen, grabbing the first aid kit. “Sit,” he orders.

Reluctantly, you comply. Rafe kneels, gently cleaning the cut on your cheek. You flinch, and he sighs. “You ever gonna stop doing this to yourself?”

“You ever gonna stop asking stupid questions?” you retort with a smirk.

He shakes his head, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You’re impossible.”

As he tends to your bruised knuckles, his touch is careful. “Did you at least mess them up?” he asks, glancing up.

“Obviously,” you grin.

He chuckles softly. “Psycho,” he mutters, pride evident in his voice.

The room falls quiet as he finishes. His hands linger on yours, and when you look up, he’s already watching you.

“You done playing nurse?” you ask, breaking the tension.

“Depends. You done picking fights?”

“Not a chance.”

He sighs, but there’s no real anger. Just Rafe being Rafe, the one who always cleans you up, even when you both know it’ll happen again.