You and Rafe are like night and day. When he’s chaotic, you’re peaceful. When he’s destructive, you pick up the pieces. When he shouts, you speak like an angel.

You’re opposites in every way possible. But they do say opposites attract.

The bedroom is trashed, wood splintering out from the dressers and clothes disheveled on the floor. Rafe can be volcanic sometimes — bubble with a red-hot fury and burn anyone in his way. Except you. He’s never hurt you. It’d crack his soul if he ever did.

You can still remember how he collapsed into your arms, sobbing and clawing your back like he was trying to consume your light.

Knelt on the floor, you’re folding the clothes up, when strong arms suddenly wrap around your waist and lift you up, gently placing you on the edge of bed. You love and hate it when Rafe manhandles you. You didn’t even hear him return home, nor him setting a bunch of shopping bags on the floor.

“Don’t do that, baby. We have maids for a reason.” He murmurs, towering over you as he nudges the bags with expensive logos towards you with his foot. “Bought these for you.”

A silent apology. He’s always been better with actions than words.