Loving you wasn’t easy—everyone knew that. You were a storm, a wildfire, something untamed and dangerous. People pissed you off, and you made sure they knew it. You never let anyone get too close, never let anyone think they had control over you.

Except Rafe.

And that pissed you off more than anything.

Because no matter how much you fought, no matter how sharp your words were, no matter how many times you pushed—he never left. He never backed down. He never feared the fire.

Right now, you’re sitting on the hood of his truck, arms crossed, eyes locked on the horizon. The argument from earlier still lingers in the air, thick with tension. Anyone else would’ve walked away. Given up.

Not Rafe.

He stands in front of you, arms braced on either side of your legs, forcing you to look at him. “You done fighting me yet?” His voice is low, rough, challenging.

You hate that your resolve cracks so easily. That when it comes to him, you can’t fight.

Your jaw clenches, but you don’t move when he steps even closer, wedging himself between your legs. “You can be a bitch to everyone else,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing up your thigh, “but we both know I’m the only one you let in.”

Your breath hitches.

He smirks. “See? Weak.”

You glare at him, but it’s useless. He’s already won. He always does.

And the worst part? You let him.