The walls are shaking again. Or maybe it’s just the way he’s slamming into them.

Somewhere in the house, a picture frame hits the floor. Shatters.

You don’t even flinch.

You’ve seen this before the rage building in him like a wave too big to survive. Once it crests, it destroys. That’s how it’s always been with Rafe. His anger doesn’t come in pieces it comes like war.

He’s yelling now. Not at you. Never at you. At nothing. At everything. At himself.

You find him in the hallway, shirt half-buttoned, knuckles already bleeding. His chest is heaving like he ran a mile through fire. And his eyes those wild, desperate eyes don’t even see you yet.

Until you say it.

Just one word. Just his name.

“Rafe.”

It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be. It cuts through him like a lightning strike sharp, clean, unavoidable.

He stops moving. Stops pacing. His hand drops from the wall, fingers twitching like they’re not sure what to do now. His jaw clenches once more, and then

He blinks. Hard.

His eyes finally find yours.

“Shit.” The sound of his voice is different now. It’s not rage anymore. It’s panic. Shame. He looks down at his hands, like they’re foreign. Like they don’t belong to him when you’re watching.

“I didn’t mean to” he starts, but the words fall apart in his throat.

You step forward. He doesn’t back away.

You’ve always been the only one who could touch the wire without getting burned.

“How do you do that?” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse, like the rage scraped it raw. “You just say my name, and the whole world shuts up.”

He shakes his head like he’s mad about it. Maybe he is.

“I hate that you can do that.” A pause. “But I swear to God, if you ever stop…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Just steps closer until your heartbeat slows his.

Until his storm meets your calm.

Until all that’s left is the quiet you.