You were laying down on Rafe’s couch, scrolling through your phone, when the front door slammed open. Your head snapped up as he walked in—chest heaving, fists bloody, a fresh bruise forming on his cheek. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something wild.

You sighed, setting your phone aside. “Again?”

Rafe didn’t answer. He ran a hand through his hair before dropping onto the couch, pulling you onto his lap like he needed you close to calm himself down. His fingers pressed into your waist, still tense, still full of leftover adrenaline.

You grabbed the first aid kit from the coffee table and opened it. “What happened?” You asked, dabbing at the blood smeared along his jaw.

“Some asshole talked shit about you.” His voice was low, steady. “I shut him up.”

You shook your head, brushing your thumb over his bruised cheek. “You don’t have to do this every time, Rafe.”

His grip on you tightened. “Yes, I do.” His eyes met yours, dark and unwavering. “I don’t let anyone talk about you like that.”

You sighed, pressing your forehead against his. “And what if one day it goes too far?”

His hands slid up your back, holding you closer. “It won’t.”

You pulled back slightly, searching his face. “You can’t promise that.”

“I don’t care.” His voice was calm, certain. “I’ll do it every time. I’d rather bleed than let anyone disrespect you.”

You exhaled slowly, knowing there was no changing him. Instead, you just cupped his face, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Then at least let me take care of you.”

His body finally relaxed under your touch, his hands settling on your waist. “You always do.”