calypso

That’s it. That’s the whole answer. You don’t miss things you say you’ll be at. Ever. Not lectures. Not rounds. Not his fights, no matter how much you pretend you don’t actually care.

The medic they tried to sub in earlier took one look at Rafe’s face and bailed when Rafe told him to get lost. You were his medic. The only one he trusted to tell him no. The only one who didn’t flinch when he was already bleeding.

The bell rings out in the main room, another fight starting. Time’s ticking.

Rafe drags a hand down his face, already bracing himself for the lecture you’re going to give him when you show. About hydration. About head trauma. About how boxing is statistically idiotic and yes, you have the numbers memorized.

Then the door swings open.

You don’t rush in. You don’t apologize.

You step inside like the weight of the world’s still sitting square on your shoulders, scrubs wrinkled beneath your jacket, hair pulled back in a semblance of a bun that’s given up the ghost. There’s something different about your face, it's tighter, more hollowed, eyes a little too sharp like you haven’t fully come back yet.

Rafe notices immediately.

You don’t look at him. You head straight for the table, snapping gloves on with practiced efficiency, jaw set.

“Hey-,” JJ starts.

You hold up a hand without even glancing his way. “Don’t.”

Rafe sits automatically when you gesture, legs spreading, elbows on his knees. He tilts his head so you can see the already-forming bruise along his cheek.

“Rough shift?” he asks, trying for light. Trying for you, knowing clinical rotations as a med student has been killing you.

Your hands still just for half a second, and per usual, you ignore his prying.

Then you pick up the penlight. “Concussion symptoms?”

“Nope.”

“Blurred vision?”

“No.”

“Nausea?”

“Only when you’re mad at me.”

He earns himself a look for that, flat, unimpressed, tired in a way that has nothing to do with him.

“Don’t,” you repeat, quieter this time.

Rafe’s grin fades.

You check his pupils, fingers steady, professional, too professional, like you’re building a wall with every careful movement.

“Why’re you late?” he asks anyway, softer now.

You don’t answer right away. Tape snaps. Gauze presses. Your thumb brushes his skin and doesn’t linger.

“Got stuck in a surgery,” you say finally, all neutral and clinical.

Rafe swallows. “Bad one?”

Your jaw tightens.

“Patient coded (def: heart stopped) during surgery," you add. “We got them back.

The room feels smaller.

Rafe watches your hands like they might start shaking. They don’t. But there’s something brittle in the way you move, like if someone presses too hard, something’s going to crack.

“That’s—” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “That’s heavy.”

You huff, humorless. “Welcome to medicine.”

He wants to say something else. Something better. Something that isn’t a joke or a deflection or a half-smirk. He wants to reach out, pull you in, let you breathe.

Instead, he says, “You know you can tell me to pull the fight.”

Your head snaps up.

“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“I could—”

“You’re cleared,” you interrupt, already standing, already done. “Your vitals are fine. Reaction time’s good. You’ll wear headgear. You’ll tap if you need to. End of discussion.”

There it is again. The line you always draw. Clean and sharp and unbreakable.

Rafe exhales through his nose, a smile tugging back despite himself. “You ever gonna let me take care of you?”

You look at him like he’s asked you to hand over a scalpel to a toddler.

“I don’t need taking care of,” you say. “I need you to not get brain damage.”

“Romantic.”

You peel off your gloves, finally meeting his eyes. There’s something raw there now, exhaustion, fear, adrenaline that hasn’t burned off yet.

“Win,” you add quietly. “And don’t make tonight worse than it already was.”

For once, Rafe doesn’t joke.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, sincere.

As he stands, he leans in just enough that only you can hear him.

“After,” he murmurs, “I’m getting you food. And you’re not arguing.”

You snort, already turning away. “After,” you shoot back, “you’re icing your face and following orders.”

Rafe grins, watching you go.

Worth it. Every damn time.

Rafe wins.

Of course he does.

It’s never pretty nor clean. It’s all grit and sharp angles and bone-deep stubbornness, but the final bell rings with his opponent on the mat and Rafe still standing, chest heaving, eyes wild and bright like the fight only sharpened him.

You’re there immediately.

Gloves on. Focused. Efficient.

“Sit,” you tell him, already pressing gauze to his lip.

“Yes, doctor,” he says, smug even through the swelling.

“Not a doctor,” you reply automatically.

“Yet.”

You ignore that.

You clean the cut, ice his cheek, run him through checks while the crowd noise fades into background static. He watches you the whole time, uncharacteristically quiet.

“You good?” he asks when you finally step back.

“I’m upright,” you say. “That’s my metric.”

He hums. Files that away.

When you finish, you peel off your gloves and start packing up like this is the end of the night. Like you aren’t running on fumes and caffeine and a near-death experience you’ve shoved into a box labeled later.

Rafe stands.

“Cool,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”

You don’t even look up. “No.”

“Not optional.”

“Yes it is.”

He steps into your space, blocking the exit, never threatening, just annoyingly solid. You look up at him, unimpressed.

“You’re cleared,” you say. “Go celebrate. Drink water. Eat protein. I’m going home.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“That’s not your problem.”

“It is if you pass out and crack your head,” he says easily. “I’d feel bad.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve been punched in the face for money. Forgive me if I don’t buy the concern.”

He grins. “See? You know me.”

You sidestep. He mirrors.

“Rafe.”

“Doc.”

“Move.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he reaches behind him and grabs his jacket, shrugging into it. “Great news. I’m under strict medical orders to eat.”

“That is not—”

“And since you’re my medic,” he continues, talking right over you, “you’re ethically obligated to supervise.”

You stare at him. Flat. Unamused.

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t say not that.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Take a breath.

“You’re abusing a technicality.”

“Absolutely.”

You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “One place. Twenty minutes. Then I’m leaving.”

Rafe’s smile is blinding. “I knew you’d see reason.”

“Don’t push it.”

The diner Rafe takes you to is small and old, a neon sign flickering like it’s one bad night from giving up entirely.

It smells like grease and coffee and something fried you can’t immediately identify. It’s nearly empty, late enough that the rush has died, early enough that the city hasn’t gone quiet yet.

Rafe slides into the booth like he owns it, arms and legs spread obnoxiously, a cheeky little scar above his lip from tonight's fights.

You sit across from him with the posture of someone bracing for impact.

The waitress eyes his bruised face, then your exhausted one. “Long night?”

“Yes,” you say.

Rafe says, “She saved a life.”

You kick his shin under the table.

“Allegedly,” you mutter.

He laughs, soft, fond, ordering enough food for two people without asking you. You don’t correct him. You don’t thank him either.

When the plates arrive, you stare at them like they might bite.

“Eat,” he says.

“I didn’t agree to—”

“You agreed to supervision,” he cuts in. “Can’t supervise on an empty stomach.”

You glare at him.

He just takes a bite, watching you over his fork.

Finally, you sigh and pick up your own.

It’s quiet for a few minutes. Comfortable, despite yourself.

“You okay?” he asks eventually.

You swallow, throat bobbing a bit, and Rafe can tell your mind is far away, still stuck on whatever happened earlier in that surgery room. “Patient lived.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You meet his gaze. Hold it.

“I’m fine,” you say, firm and final

He nods like he believes you. Like he respects it.

But when you stand to leave, he’s already sliding out of the booth with you.

“I'll walk you home,” he says.

“I didn’t agree to that.”

He smirks. “Yeah. But you didn’t say no fast enough.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop him.

Instead, he tightens his arm around you, face buried into your shoulder, breath warm against your skin. His hair is a mess all soft, sticking up in places, nothing like the neat, sun-bleached chaos you usually see after a day at the garage. He looks…younger like this. Unguarded.

“Rafe?” you whisper.

A sound leaves him that’s halfway between a groan and a sigh. “Mmm.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are still closed, lashes resting against faint shadows, mouth relaxed in a way that feels almost unfair. He doesn’t look like the guy who lifts engines and smells like oil and sweat and long hours.

He looks like someone who stayed because he needed you.

“You’re not at work,” you murmur.

“Sharp observation, corporate,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “Real detective stuff.”

Your mouth twitches despite yourself.

You slide your hand up his toned arm, feeling the heat of him, the familiar strength under skin that’s too warm this morning. Warmer than it should be.

You press your palm to his forehead.

He cracks one eye open. “If you’re about to say I’m dying, I swear—”

“You’re burning up.”

He squints at you. “Wow. Concerned and bossy before coffee.”

“Rafe.”

That gets his other eye open. Just barely. He studies your face, the teasing softening into something quieter.

“Didn’t feel good last night,” he admits. “Figured I’d…stay. Didn’t wanna be alone.”

Something gentle and aching settles in your chest.

You brush your thumb over his cheek. “You could’ve told me.”

He shrugs, even though he’s still wrapped around you. “Didn’t wanna be a problem.”

You exhale, slow and steady. “You are literally in my bed. If you were a problem, I’d have kicked you out hours ago.”

“Tempting, I’m sure,” he murmurs.

You nudge his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”

He huffs a weak laugh, then winces just slightly like it costs him more energy than he wants to admit. His grip on you tightens again, instinctive.

“Stay,” he says, softer now. Not demanding. Just… honest.

You don’t hesitate.

“I was planning on it.”

He relaxes into you, forehead resting against your collarbone like that’s exactly where he belongs. The city keeps moving outside your windows, but in here it’s just warmth and quiet and the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Your phone buzzes again and you glance at it without really seeing it.

You already know what you’re going to do.

“Guess what,” you say.

“What.”

“I’m working from home today.”

His eyes open this time.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He searches your face, like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to believe that. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” You brush some of his hair out of his eyes. “I want to.”

There’s a pause. Then, quietly, “You’re real nice to me when I’m all pathetic.”

You snort. “You’re not pathetic. You’re just… temporarily useless.”

His mouth curves, slow and tired and fond. “Ouch.”

“Don’t make me file a complaint with your immune system.”

He chuckles, then coughs once, low in his chest. You immediately shift, sitting up a little and guiding him with you.

“Okay, sweet boy,” you say gently. “You’re sick. That means you listen to me today.”

He looks at you like he might argue, but the way you’ve gone all soft makes his heart melt.

So he sighs. “Yes, ma’am.”

You slip out of bed just long enough to grab the throw blanket from your chair by the window and drape it over him when you climb back in. You press a quick kiss to his forehead without thinking.

He freezes for half a second.

Then melts further.

“Wow,” he murmurs. “Luxury apartment, beautiful girlfriend, personal nurse…”

You arch a brow. “Careful.”

“…I could get used to this,” he finishes, eyes soft.

You settle back beside him, tucking yourself into his side. He wraps around you again immediately, like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s where he’s supposed to be.

“Try not to get sick on purpose now,” you tease.

“No promises.”

You smile into his shoulder.

For once, there’s no rush. No early alarm. No boots on the floor. No world demanding him back.

Just the two of you, tangled in expensive sheets, sunlight on the walls, and the quiet knowledge that today you get to take care of him.

And he lets you.

….

When you’re sick, you try to gaslight yourself into thinking you’re not.

You should’ve listened to your body.

You know that now.

But at the time, it was just a headache. Then a sore throat. Then the kind of bone-deep exhaustion you kept telling yourself was just another long week, another set of deadlines, another late night at your desk in your luxury apartment with the city glowing beneath your windows.

You told yourself you were fine.

You always are.

You kept pushing through meetings. Through emails. Through the way your head throbbed when you stood too fast and the way your hands shook just a little when you poured your coffee. You kept showing up in pressed blouses and perfectly tailored pants, hair smooth, posture straight, voice steady.

You didn’t want to be the one who needed something.

Especially not from him.

Him who also worked so long and hard everyday, but in a different way.

So when Rafe texted you three days in a row after calling saying ‘you sound off, you okay?’ you brushed it away.

Just tired. Big week. I’m fine, promise.

He didn’t believe you.

But he let it go, knowing how stubborn you are. For a little wihle.

The night it finally catches up to you, you’re standing in your kitchen, staring blankly at your phone while your laptop pings from the dining table behind you. Your apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside and the dull ringing in your ears.

Your coffee’s gone cold in your hand.

Your legs feel like they might give out.

You barely register the knock at your door.

It comes again, firmer this time.

You frown, setting the mug down a little too hard on the counter, and walk toward the entryway. Your head swims when you move too fast, and you have to brace your hand against the wall for a second before unlocking the door.

Rafe is standing there.

Hair wind-tousled. Hoodie thrown on over his t-shirt. Concern written all over his face before he even opens his mouth.

“Hey, corporate—”

You blink at him.

Your vision goes a little fuzzy at the edges.

“Rafe,” you breathe, like you didn’t quite expect him to be real.

His expression changes instantly.

“You okay?” he asks, already stepping inside, eyes scanning you from head to toe.

You try to shrug. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Your body betrays you at the worst possible moment and your knees wobble, not enough to fall, but enough that he notices.

He’s at your side in two steps, hands steadying you by the arms like it’s instinct.

“Whoa. Hey. Easy,” he says softly.

You hate how good it feels to lean into him.

“I’m fine,” you insist weakly.

“You are very clearly not,” he says, brows drawn together.

You try to laugh it off, but even that makes you grimace in pain. “Don’t be dramatic.”

He studies your face, your glassy eyes, the way your skin looks too warm, the faint tremor in your hands.

He guides you toward the couch like it’s non-negotiable. You want to protest, to tell him you still have work to do, that you don’t have time for this. But the moment you sit, the exhaustion hits you full force.

Your shoulders slump.

Your head falls back against the cushions.

Rafe crouches in front of you, hands resting on your knees.

“How long have you been feelin’ like this?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

His eyes narrow just a little. “Don’t lie to me.”

You sigh. “…A few days.”

His jaw tightens. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” you say. “I had stuff to do.”

He exhales through his nose, something between a huff and a groan.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. Then softer, not unkind, “You’re impossible.”

You manage a faint smile. “You still love me.”

He looks at you for a long moment.

“I really do,” he says. Like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

Your chest tightens in that warm, fluttery way you’re still not used to.

He presses the back of his hand to your forehead.

Warm.

Too warm.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re burnin’ up.”

“It’s probably nothing,” you say.

“Uh-huh. And I’m probably a fairy princess.”

Despite everything, a small laugh slips out of you.

“There she is,” he says softly. “Knew I’d get you to smile eventually.”

He stands, already tugging his hoodie off and draping it over your shoulders.

“You’re staying right here,” he says. “I’m gettin’ you water.”

“I can do it—”

“Nope,” he says. “Sit. Be sick.”

You watch him disappear into your kitchen, moving through your space like he belongs there. The sound of the faucet. The quiet clink of a glass. You feel…strange.

Not weak.

Just…cared for.

He comes back with water and holds it out to you.

“Small sips,” he says.

You obey. Your throat burns less almost immediately.

“See?” you murmur. “Not dying.”

He arches a brow. “Give it time.”

You roll your eyes weakly.

“Don’t get smug.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely gettin’ smug,” he says. “I told you days ago you didn’t sound right.”

“Because you worry too much.”

He sits beside you now, close enough that your shoulder brushes his.

“I worry about you,” he says simply.

The words settle between you, heavy in the best way.

Your head tips toward him without you meaning to.

He freezes for half a second, like he doesn’t want to startle you, then gently shifts so you can rest against his chest. One arm wraps around you, warm and steady.

You hadn’t realized how badly you needed this.

“You always do this,” he murmurs. “Push and push and push like you’re not allowed to slow down.”

You close your eyes.

“Someone has to get things done.”

He hums quietly. “Yeah. But someone also has to take care of you.”

Your throat tightens.

“…That’s not really my thing,” you admit.

“Good,” he says. “’Cause it’s mine.”

You laugh softly, the sound muffled against his shirt.

“You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Kinda like seein’ you sit still for once.”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “Be nice.”

His mouth curves into that familiar, crooked grin, but his eyes stay gentle.

“I am bein’ nice,” he says. “I didn’t even say ‘I told you so.’”

“You’re thinking it.”

“Always.”

You smile, even as your body feels heavy and warm and weak in a way you hate.

But with him there, his arm around you, his thumb brushing slow, comforting circles at your side, you don’t feel alone in it.

“Rafe?” you murmur.

“Yeah, corporate?”

“…Thanks for coming.”

He looks down at you, something soft and real in his eyes.

“Always gonna be there,” he says. “Even when you pretend you don’t need me.”

Your heart flutters painfully, beautifully.

You close your eyes again, letting yourself lean fully into him this time.

For once, you don’t push through.

You let him take care of you.

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms, @drewstarkeyspecs, @nightchanges777, @starkeyjoseph, @bonjourjiminie, @discomago, @kissylec, @kelbrave, @therosequartzwitch666, @laurel-inheaven, @parkjiminiemouse, @a-lovers-card, @lxvrgirl, @maryjaneeeee, @sebbystans1fan16, @vittoriaxcx, @shariiina, @mysticbby2009, @mrssssmalfoy, @delayeddrabbles, @kuskumu, @imliterallysocoolfr, @ivy-34, @octoberbxby

Brunette hair cut short and sleek, sundress that screams sweet girl-next-door, sunglasses perched just-so on her head. One hand on the hood near him. Too near. Her body angled in, voice pitched low, intimate. Laughing like she’s earned it.

Your chest tightens sharply, like someone’s wrapped a fist around your ribs and decided to test their grip.

You don’t hear what she says, but you see her reach out, fingers brushing his arm, casual. Possessive. Familiar in a way that crawls under your skin.

Rafe doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t flirt back either. His smile doesn’t widen. His posture doesn’t change. But he doesn’t move away.

And that’s enough for you.

Your pride kicks in before hurt has time to bloom.

You stop walking abruptly, and for exactly half a second, you consider staying. Letting him see you. Letting him explain. You imagine your face, always cool, composed, perfectly neutral. You imagine how stupidly transparent that would be for someone like you.

So you turn.

Immediately.

Your heels click once, sharp and decisive, as you pivot and start back toward your car, jaw set, grip tightening on the paper bag until it crinkles in protest. You’re already rehearsing the dismissal. Busy. No big deal. You were nearby. You desperately hope that he didn’t see you.

“Hey—”

Rafe’s voice cuts through the air, rougher than usual.

You don’t stop.

“Hey,” he says again, louder now. “Corporate.”

Damn it.

Your shoulders stiffen but you keep walking for two more steps before you force yourself to turn, stoic mask snapping into place so fast it almost hurts.

You lift a brow. “Busy?”

Sofia turns too, surprise flashing across her face as she takes you in. Assesses. You recognize the look. You’ve worn it yourself.

Rafe’s already moving, though.

He pushes off the truck, steps away from Sofia without a glance, closing the distance to you like gravity’s decided. His eyes search your face, sharp and focused, something flickering there.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he asks.

You hold up the bag. “Was in the area. Thought I’d drop this off.”

Your tone is light. Polite. Detached.

Too detached, and Rafe knows the barriers he's worked so hard for you to bring down are raising again.

His gaze drops to the bag. Then back to you. He exhales through his nose, quiet. “You were leavin’.”

“It looked like you were in the middle of something.”

Sofia clears her throat behind him. “Rafe, I should probably—”

He doesn’t turn around, doesn't even spare her a look, his blue eyes stay trained on you, flickering over your face as he desperately tries to find a crack in your armor.

“Yeah,” he says flatly to Sofia. “You should.”

There’s a pause. You don’t look, but you hear her heels retreating, hear the faint edge of irritation she doesn’t bother hiding when she mutters goodbye. Only when her car door slams do you let your shoulders drop the barest fraction.

Rafe rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Grease smears into his skin. “She didn’t mean nothin’.”

You smile. It’s practiced. “I didn’t say she did.”

He studies you for a beat, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t have to.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.

Finally, you sigh, all sharp edges and controlled restraint cracking just enough to sting. “She seemed… comfortable.”

His jaw tightens. “She’s an old acquaintance.”

“And an ex,” you add, quietly.

He doesn’t deny it. “On and off. A long time ago.”

Your fingers flex around the bag. “Funny how the past has a way of showing up uninvited.”

He steps closer. Close enough that you can smell oil and heat and that familiar clean undertone that always pulls at something low in your stomach. His voice drops. “You were gonna walk away.”

You lift your chin. “I don’t chase things that don’t want to be caught.”

That does it.

He reaches out, not touching you, but close, hand hovering near your wrist, heat radiating. “Look at me.”

You hesitate. Then you do.

His expression softens, just slightly. “I saw you,” he admits. “The second you stopped.”

Your breath catches despite yourself.

“And you still turned away,” he continues, not accusing. Just stating it. “Didn’t even give me the chance.”

Your composure finally slips. Just a hairline fracture. “I didn’t think you’d want one.”

Rafe swears under his breath, then finally closes the distance, fingers curling gently around your wrist, grounding. “You gotta stop doin’ that,” he murmurs. “Decidin’ for me.”

Your throat tightens. “You looked… fine without me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah? Felt like hell.”

You scoff weakly. “That’s dramatic.”

“Maybe.” His thumb brushes your pulse, slow. Intentional. “But I don’t flirt back. I don’t cross lines. And I don’t take lunches with anyone else when I’m already waitin’ on you.”

Your eyes flick to the bag between you.

His gaze follows and softens further. You can tell it means the world to him. “You brought me food?”

You swallow. “I was trying to be nice.”

He smiles then, real and warm and entirely for you, and leans down just enough to murmur, “Next time? Don’t walk away.”

You exhale, the last of your facade finally giving. “Next time,” you say quietly, “don’t look so comfortable without me.”

His grip tightens, just a little. “Deal.”

TAGLIST (OG taglist + anyone who asked to be tagged): @lunaleah, @luzstarkey, @rafeycameronsgf, @pluviophilis @aerie717, @voqueflms, @drewstarkeyspecs, @nightchanges777, @starkeyjoseph, @bonjourjiminie, @discomago, @kissylec, @kelbrave, @therosequartzwitch666, @laurel-inheaven, @parkjiminiemouse, @a-lovers-card, @lxvrgirl, @maryjaneeeee, @sebbystans1fan16, @vittoriaxcx, @shariiina, @mysticbby2009, @mrssssmalfoy, @delayeddrabbles, @kuskumu, @imliterallysocoolfr (ILY ALL im so sorry if i forgot to put you on the taglist, just lmk!!)

“Rafe, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t tell me what I have to do. I’m not—” His voice cracks, the words splintering. He clears his throat hard, trying to cover it. “I’m not letting you sit there alone. Not after—fuck, just text me.”

When he bursts into your room twenty minutes later, hair mussed, shirt still half tucked from work, he looks like he’s been through hell. His sea-glass eyes scan every inch of you, zeroing in on the bandage wrapped around your arm.

“Jesus, baby,” he mutters, and for once, he doesn’t try to make a joke. He just crouches by your bed, presses his forehead to your uninjured arm, and breathes like he’s relearning how.

“See?” you whisper, fingers threading through his damp hair. “Still alive.”

His hand curls tight around yours, knuckles white. “Don’t scare me like that again. Ever. I swear, I don’t care if I have to buy you a bubble to work in—just…don’t.”

You smile softly, brushing your thumb over his temple. “You’d hate me in a bubble.”

“I’d love you in anything,” he says fiercely, finally lifting his head. His eyes are raw, rimmed red. “Even a bubble.”

...

You barely make it two steps into your house before Rafe is swooping in like some six-foot-something bodyguard. He’s already carrying your overnight bag from the hospital, juggling your prescriptions, and glaring at the nurse’s discharge papers like they’re a hit list.

“Okay,” he announces, dropping everything onto the counter with a thud. “No diving for—what’d she say—six weeks? Eight? Hell, maybe longer. Definitely longer.”

You laugh, lowering yourself carefully onto the couch. “Rafe, it’s literally a surface wound. I can still work.”

He whips around, eyes flashing. “Work? No. No way. Marine biology is canceled. The ocean is canceled. Fish are canceled.”

You snort. “You can’t cancel fish.”

“Watch me,” he grumbles, already on his phone. “What’s a barracuda’s natural predator? Sharks, right? I’ll buy a pack and have them wiped out by Monday.”

“Rafe.”

He looks up, dead serious. “Don’t Rafe me. You think I’m gonna let you swim around with those things again? Nah. You’re retired.”

You roll your eyes. “So what, I’m supposed to sit on land forever?”

“Exactly. Safest place for you? On land. Preferably bubble-wrapped. Preferably in my line of sight at all times.” He crouches in front of you, frowning at your bandaged arm like it personally offended him. “And you’re not lifting anything heavier than a coffee mug, got it?”

You smirk. “Even a coffee mug might be risky. What if it bites?”

“Not funny,” he says flatly, but the way his hand hovers protectively at your elbow betrays him. He’s already tucking a blanket around you like you’re made of glass.

“I love my job, Rafe,” you say softly, meeting his eyes. “You can’t bubble-wrap me forever.”

Something in his chest deflates. He presses his forehead against your knee, breathing you in. “I know. I just—” His voice drops, raw. “I can’t lose you to the ocean.”

You slide your good hand into his hair, fingers gentle. “You won’t. I promise.”

For a long beat, he doesn’t move, just stays kneeling there like the world is only steady if he’s anchored to you. Then, finally, he mutters against your skin.

“Still googling every dangerous fish in the Atlantic, though.”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. “Fine. Just don’t cancel marine biology.”