It starts like it always does with the two of you: too close, too stubborn, voices echoing off the walls.

“You know what your problem is?” you throw at him, chest heaving, heart hammering. “You think the whole damn world owes you something, Rafe. Just because of your bullshit with Ward.”

“And you think you’re so fucking above it all,” he spits back, voice raw, eyes locked on yours. “Like you don’t need anyone. Like nothing ever touches you.”

“Because it doesn’t,” you bite out, heat flashing under your skin. “Especially not you.”

It’s a lie. And you both hear it the second it’s out.

His jaw goes tight, breath catching like you just stabbed something soft inside him. “Say that again,” he grits, stepping in, close enough to taste the sweetness of that perfume he got you.

God, even your perfume is his.

You tilt your chin, stubborn to the bone, even as your pulse thunders in your throat. “You heard me.”

And that’s when it happens.

His hand snaps up, wrapping around your throat—not hard, not bruising, but firm. Heat rushes up your spine, breath caught half in panic, half in want. He pushes you gently back against the wall, chest brushing yours, breath ragged.

“Do you wanna repeat that, baby?” he growls, voice so low it scrapes your bones. His thumb drags lazy circles against your skin, the softness at war with the fury in his gaze.

Your heart’s racing so fast it hurts. And fuck, you want to hate it—you should hate it—but you don’t. Your thighs clench, breath trembling out of you like a secret.

“Go on,” he snaps, jaw tight, eyes blazing. “Say it again. Tell me I don’t matter. Tell me you don’t fucking need me.”

You swallow, chest tight, heat licking at every nerve. “Rafe…” your voice cracks, half a plea, half a warning.

“Yeah?” he spits, leaning closer, forehead brushing yours, voice raw and angry. “You wanna talk big, but look at you now.” His hand tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you whose name you’ll moan when the fight’s over. “You can’t even fucking breathe without me.”

Your breath comes out shaky, lashes fluttering. Pride burns in your chest, but your body betrays you—you lean in, heart slamming against his palm.

“Didn’t think so,” he rasps, voice dropping softer, bitter and wanting all at once. “Fucking say something now.”

Silence stretches between you, hot and charged, your heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can feel it under his palm. The anger still hums under your skin—sharp and electric—but it’s swallowed by something darker, heavier. His thumb brushes your jaw, and for a breathless moment, the fury cracks into softness—just enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you why it still matters.

And in that dizzy, trembling heartbeat, it’s all still there: the love you never killed, the rage you never buried, the stupid, unstoppable need that makes your chest ache and your thighs clench.

His scowl softens into a slow, amused smirk, eyes dark and knowing as they flicker over your parted lips and flushed skin. “What, you like my hand on your throat?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing and dangerous at once.

Your breath catches, shame and desire burning hot under your cheeks. But you don’t look away—you can’t. His fingers flex, pressing lightly into the side of your neck, not enough to hurt—just enough to make you feel it. Just enough to make your pulse flutter wild against his skin.

“Oh, you do,” he says, softer now, like he’s savoring every shaky breath you take. His thumb drags lazily across the hollow of your throat, and your knees nearly buckle under the heat pooling low in your belly. “Look at you,” he breathes out, voice rough around the edges, in awe. “Fucking shaking for me.”

You open your mouth to deny it, to spit something cruel—but your voice dies in your throat, replaced by a shaky gasp that sounds too much like yes. His eyes darken, the smirk flickering into something softer—something almost tender, achingly familiar.

“That’s what I thought,” he rasps, leaning in so close his breath ghosts across your lips, hot and ragged. “Good girl.”