You thought you could handle it. At first, it was just words — sharp, cutting, designed to make you feel small. Then it became the shove against the wall when he was angry. The grip on your arm that left bruises. And then it escalated — fists, kicks, the kind of pain you couldn’t explain away with clumsy excuses anymore.
Every time you told yourself it was the last. But you always went back. Because leaving felt impossible, and somewhere in the twisted mess of it all, you believed him when he said you were nothing without him.
You wore long sleeves. You kept your head down. You smiled when people were looking. But Rafe Cameron wasn’t like most people. He noticed.
⸻
The first time he saw the bruise, you swore you saw something in him snap.
You’d been reaching for a glass in the kitchen when your sleeve slid up just far enough to show the purple blooming across your wrist. You froze, yanking the fabric down, but it was too late.
Rafe’s gaze zeroed in. His voice was calm — too calm. “Who did that to you?”
You shook your head quickly. “It’s nothing. I just—”
“Don’t.” His tone cut sharp, firm. He stepped closer, his jaw tight, eyes cold. “Tell me who.”
Your chest tightened, panic clawing at you. “Rafe, please. Don’t ask me that.”
He didn’t back down. Instead, he exhaled slowly, like he was holding himself back from exploding. “You think I haven’t seen it? The way you flinch when your phone goes off. The way you avoid mirrors. The way you’re disappearing right in front of me.”
Tears stung your eyes. You wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in your throat.
Rafe’s voice dropped, softer but more dangerous. “He hits you.”
You didn’t answer. But silence was enough.
⸻
The next time it happened, Rafe was there.
Your boyfriend’s temper had snapped over something small, like it always did. He shoved you hard enough that you stumbled, then his fist connected with your ribs. The pain exploded through you, your body curling in on itself as he kicked once, twice—
“HEY!”
The roar shook the walls. Before you could even look up, Rafe had your boyfriend by the collar, slamming him against the wall so hard a picture frame shattered. His hand pressed into his chest, pinning him like he weighed nothing.
“You like hitting someone who won’t fight back?” Rafe snarled, his face inches away, voice like thunder. “Try it with me. Go on. Hit me.”
Your boyfriend stammered, face pale. “I—it’s not—”
Rafe’s fist connected with the wall beside his head, cracking plaster. “Touch her again and I’ll break every bone in your body. You hear me? Every. Single. One.”
You were shaking, curled on the floor, but for the first time, you weren’t afraid of the man who’d hurt you. You were afraid of Rafe — not because he’d ever hurt you, but because you could feel the violence radiating off him like fire.
And for once, that violence wasn’t aimed at you. It was aimed for you.
⸻
Rafe shoved him away, the boyfriend scrambling for the door, muttering threats he didn’t mean. Rafe didn’t chase him. He just stood there, chest heaving, until the room went silent.
Then he turned to you.
The fury melted instantly, replaced with something that twisted your heart. His voice was rough, but gentle. “C’mere.”
He crouched down, carefully helping you sit up, his hands surprisingly steady as they brushed over your bruised ribs. His jaw tightened at every wince.
“I should’ve stopped this sooner,” he muttered, guilt bleeding into his tone. “I saw the signs. I knew something was wrong. And I let you suffer alone.” His eyes flicked up, sharp again. “Never again. You understand me? He’ll never touch you again. I’ll make sure of it.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks as you whispered, “Why do you care so much?”
Rafe’s hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear. His eyes softened, just for you.
“Because you don’t deserve this. Because you’re not broken. And because someone should’ve fought for you a long time ago.”
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed maybe you weren’t as alone as you thought.
Because Rafe had noticed. And Rafe