You pick up the call, and his voice is already laced with adrenaline.

“Hey. Listen—before you say anything, just… trust me, okay?”

You close your eyes. That tone. That exact damn tone he uses every single time he’s about to do something insane.

There’s a pause, and then Rafe chuckles — low, sharp, too pleased with himself. “Okay, maybe I’m in a little situation. Don’t freak out, it’s nothing serious. Just… some guy’s nose might be broken and I’m down a shirt. Minor details.”

He’s moving while he talks — doors slamming, keys jingling, the occasional muffled cuss as he nearly trips over something. He sounds too calm for whatever mess he’s gotten into.

“I told you, I’ve got it handled. Trust me.”

You hear him pause. “Babe,” he says, voice dipping into that sweet, crooked grin you can hear even without seeing his face. “I know I look like the poster boy for bad decisions, but I’d never let anything touch you. Swear on my life.” Then, quieter— “…Not like I got much else worth protecting anyway.”

Another beat. Then—

“Oh, and uh… if a cop calls you asking if I was with you tonight, the answer’s yes. Obviously. You’re my alibi. Don’t make that face, baby, c’mon—trust me.”