You love Rafe, you really do. But fuck, sometimes he just doesn’t get it. His hands are always on you—your waist, your arm, the back of your neck. He pulls you close when you don’t expect it, fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. It’s not that you don’t like his touch, but sometimes it’s just too much.

Tonight is no different. You’re at a party, music thumping through the floor, the air thick with sweat and alcohol. You’re mid-conversation with some random guy from the island when you feel it—Rafe’s arm, locking around your waist like a fucking warning sign.

“You good?” you ask, tilting your head up at him. His jaw is tight, his eyes locked on the guy in front of you like he’s about to rip his throat out.

“Yeah,” he mutters, but his grip tightens. Possessive. That’s the only way to describe it.

You sigh, prying his fingers off you. “Rafe, seriously?”

He scoffs, but there’s something desperate in the way he looks at you. “What?”

“You don’t have to—” You gesture vaguely between the two of you, trying to find the words. “You don’t have to hold me all the time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Something flashes in his eyes—hurt? Anger? You can’t tell. He swipes a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I just—” He clenches his jaw. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” you push.

He hesitates, and for a second, you see the rawness beneath his usual cocky smirk. “I just need you, okay? And sometimes it feels like you—like you don’t want me the same way.”

Your chest tightens. Shit. That’s not it. Not at all.

“I do want you, Rafe,” you say, softer now. “But I just—fuck, I don’t like being touched all the time. It’s not you, it’s just… me.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, nodding slightly. He looks frustrated, maybe even a little lost. “So what? You want me to stop?”

You step closer, grabbing his hand. “No. I just want you to understand.”

You squeeze his fingers. He’s still learning. But fuck, so are you.