The door closed harder than it needed to. You didn’t flinch — not this time, or ever. You knew the sound too well. Knew what followed, but whatever it was, you were ready.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, staring breathing like he’d run miles just to be angry next to you.

“That guy…” he finally muttered, like the words had been burning in his throat all day. “The one at the party we were. Who the fuck was he?”

You turned, slowly. “Some idiot, i don’t know.”

But it didn’t land. Not with him. Not with Rafe.

He laughed — short, bitter. “Yeah, well, you looked real uncomfortable standing there, letting him talk to you.”

You swallowed. “You fucking saw me pull away, rafe.”

“Didn’t look like it.”

He was lying. You both knew it. But his jealousy didn’t run on facts — it ran on instincts. And right now, they were drowning him.

“You always do this,” you said, voice low. “You take something small and light that shit on fire. what are you insinuating?”

Rafe stepped closer. His hands shook — not from rage, but something worse: fear. “Because I know how guys think. I know what they want when they look at you like that. And I can’t stand it. I can’t fucking breathe when I see it.”

Now the quiet felt dangerous.

You didn’t need to yell to make your point.

He knew you would never do anything, hw just can’t control his anger. that’s rafe.