I keep the bite out of my tone with effort. “Because you didn’t answer me.”
Rafe’s mouth twists. “I’ve been busy.”
I stare at him, the audacity of it. The sheer, ridiculous denial.
“Busy?” I repeat.
He looks away like my stare is too bright. “I barely check my phone anymore,” he mutters. “There’s always someone wanting something.”
The words hit too close. And the ugliness rises in me like bile. “Including me?” I ask.
Rafe’s head snaps back to me. He rolls his eyes, then winces at the motion, teeth clenching. “I think it’s safe to say that’s not the issue,” he says, voice edged. “You don’t want anything from me, Ollie.”
The words land sharp, so fucking sharp that I flinch. “That’s not fair,” I say, voice low. “I love you.”
He laughs once, humorless. “Yeah, but you don’t actually want a life with me.”
I drag in a breath, but it doesn’t go far. This is the trap. This is where our fights go to die. Circular. Repetitive. Painful. I force myself to keep calm, because if I let it turn into an argument, nothing will get done. And something has to get done.
“Rafe,” I say, softer, “I’m not here to fight.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t believe that’s possible.
So I do the thing I’ve been avoiding, even in my own head. I say it. “I’m here because last night scared the hell out of me.”
Rafe’s expression flickers, defensive. “I was fine.”
“No,” I say immediately, “you weren’t.”
His jaw tightens. He tries to sit up straighter, like posture will fix it. “I had a good time.”
I stare at him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. My voice stays calm only because my body feels too hollow for rage to work properly. “So, you being at a party, unable to stand, barely conscious, and letting someone touch your dick while you couldn’t even keep your eyes open—that’s you being in control?”
The silence is brutal, and Rafe turns ashen. “What?” he croaks. He looks genuinely horrified. “I didn’t,” he says quickly. “I didn’t—Ollie, I didn’t.”
I swallow hard, throat burning. “That’s what I walked into.”
Rafe’s mouth opens, then closes. His eyes flick away, searching memory that isn’t there. He looks sick. He scrambles upright, too fast again. His legs swing over the side of the bedand he stands, then immediately sways, one hand flying out to the wall to steady himself.
“Fuck—” he hisses, palm slapping to his head again. His fingers find the bandage. “What the fuck is that?”
“Rafe,” I say, moving closer. “Sit down.”
He doesn’t. He’s breathing hard, panic starting to claw through his hangover haze.
“You fell,” I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking. “You hit your head. You were bleeding. Vinny checked you. You didn’t need stitches.”
Rafe stares at me like he’s trying to see me through fog. Then something in him cracks. He swallows hard, like he’s holding back vomit or tears or both. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
His apology doesn’t fix anything, but it hits anyway. I step closer and offer him the water. His hand shakes when he takes it. I offer the painkillers, and he stares at them like they’re a confession.
“Rafe,” I say again, softer. “This isn’t you.”
His laugh is broken. “You don’t know what I am anymore.”
The words hurt, especially as he thinks they’re true. Maybe they are. I force myself to breathe. “You need to stop drinking.”
Rafe stiffens instantly. “I’m fine.”
