“I’m sorry,” I say immediately.
“No,” he says. “I don’t like that you’re hurting.” He sits back, jaw tight, eyes distant for a moment like he’s making a calculation I can’t see. Then he exhales sharply. “Okay,” he says. “I’ve made a decision.”
My stomach drops. “Rafe?—”
“I’m not doing individual security,” he says firmly.
The words hit like a slap. “What?” I sit up straighter despite myself. “No. That’s not?—”
“I won’t do it,” he repeats. “Not if this is what it does to you.”
Guilt crashes into me so hard it steals my breath. “That’s not the solution,” I say, horrified. “You can’t—this isn’t about me being comfortable. This is about safety.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not putting you through this.”
My chest tightens again, but this time it’s grief, not panic. “I don’t get to decide that for you,” I say hoarsely. “You don’t get to protect me by risking yourself.”
Silence stretches, and a terrible thought flashes through my mind, uninvited and vicious.
If we didn’t live together, he’d be safe.
The idea makes me feel sick. I bury it immediately, ashamed of even thinking it.
Rafe stands abruptly, pacing now. “We’re at an impasse.”
“No,” I say, “we’re not. We just?—”
“You can’t live with security here,” he says, voice sharp now. “And I can’t keep pretending this isn’t escalating.”
“I didn’t say I can’t,” I argue. “I said I’m scared.”
“And I’m scared too,” he snaps. “Do you think watching you spiral like that didn’t scare the shit out of me?”
The argument ignites fast, hot and raw.
“I’m trying,” I say desperately. “I’m trying to adjust.”
“And I’m trying not to feel like loving me is destroying you,” he fires back.
That lands.
Hard.
The room goes very still.
Rafe drags a hand through his hair, breathing ragged. “I can’t keep doing this,” he says quietly.
My heart lurches. “Doing what?”
“Living in a space where your fear and my safety are at odds,” he says. “Where every step forward feels like it might break you.”
My voice trembles. “So, what are you saying?”
He stops pacing, looks at me, and finally says the thing neither of us has been willing to put words to. “I’ll move out.”
The world tilts. My chest caves inward, a new kind of panic flooding me, colder and sharper than before.
I can’t breathe.
