Author's note: anyone else just
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Rafe wasn’t even wearing his headset. That was the problem.
He was sprawled at the end of the bed, one knee bouncing, controller clicking nonstop while the sound effects blasted through the little TV like he was trying to host a tournament. Meanwhile you were curled under the blanket, face buried in your pillow, trying to rest.
“Rafe,” you whispered, voice already thin, “can you turn it down a little?”
He paused his game without looking back. “Babe… it’s not even that loud.”
“It’s loud to me,” you murmured.
And that’s how the debate started. Him insisting he was already on “like, volume fifteen.” You insisting fifteen might as well be fifty. Him offering to turn the bass down. You telling him the bass wasn’t the problem. Him sighing so dramatically you could feel it.
But he did it. He turned it down. Muttering under his breath about sensitive ears and “your whole thing.”
For about eight minutes, it helped.
Then the volume ticked up one notch. Not much. Nothing crazy. But enough that it brushed against your nerves like sandpaper.
Your eyes opened. “Rafe. Why’d you turn it back up?”
He didn’t look at you. “I didn’t. Must’ve glitched.”
“Rafe.”
“Baby, seriously, I didn’t even touch—”
You reached over, grabbed the cord, and unplugged the entire console with zero hesitation.
The screen went black. Rafe froze. Slowly turned his head.
“…Did you just—”
“I asked nicely.” You pulled the blanket up to your shoulder and turned to face the wall, your breath a little shaky from how overstimulated you were. “I can hear everything.”
For a moment, he was actually mad. Jaw tight, hand still wrapped around the dead controller like he was mourning it. He opened his mouth, then shut it, then tossed the controller onto the floor in defeat.
You didn’t look. You just curled in on yourself, trying to let the quiet settle in your chest.
A full minute passed.
Then the mattress dipped behind you.
Rafe slid in without a word. No huffing, no complaining now. Just warm arms sliding around your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath soft against your neck.
“You good?” he whispered, voice low like he was finally matching your volume.
You nodded.
“You sure? You never turn away from me unless you’re overwhelmed.”
Your throat tightened a little. “I just needed quiet.”
He tucked his face in your shoulder. “I can do quiet.”
His hand rubbed slow circles over your hip, grounding you. The game was forgotten. The irritation dissolved. He pressed a small kiss to the back of your head like an apology he didn’t know how to say out loud.
“Next time,” he murmured, “just tell me before it gets that bad. I’ll listen.”
And for once, he really meant it.
You relaxed into him, letting the silence settle with both of you, warm and soft and enough.