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·.✿ THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MAGPIES AND MEN — THERAPIST!RAFE CAMERON x STRIPPER!READER

·.· SUMMARY ·.· exhausted and hollowed out after a devastating day at his practice, rafe seeks escape in a strip club for the very first time, only to find unexpected comfort in the company of a dancer who sees through every wall he tries to put up. what begins as teasing banter and late-night escapism slowly turns into something far more intimate, until a single confession unravels the true weight of what he’s been carrying.

·.· CONTENT INFO ·.·

this fic circles around topics that may be triggering for some, and even if it never reaches any explicit level, i feel obligated to place this warning.

reader's primarily characterized as a bratty sweetheart, age gap (reader early 20s, rafe early 30s), angst, heavy mental health themes, grief, alcohol use, childhood trauma implied through rhetorical devices (sexual abuse, domestic violence, suicide themes), suggestive themes (it’s a strip club, duh), hurt/comfort, emotional distress, reader's stripper name is "Kitty"

·.· WORD COUNT·.· 6.7k+

·.· AUTHOR'S NOTE ·.· needed a little distraction from KMS, so i wrote this little fic. the cat theme is kinda self-indulgent but i hope you enjoy anyway, lmk what you think <3 i would love to do more parts with these two if you guys like them. xx ᓚᘏᗢ

"That idiot over there," Ruby said with a scrunch of her nose, motioning with her head toward a lonely man at the bar. "He's been sitting there for an hour already. Bought two drinks and turned down Lacey and Dove."

She shook her head as she crossed her arms, the crimson light above making her dark skin shimmer beautifully. "Didn't even look at them. Just told them to go empty another guy's wallet."

The guy in question sat on a high stool in one of the darker corners of the bar, his broad back turned to you. His hair was slightly tousled, and he stared into his amber drink—whiskey, by the looks of it.

Curiously, your eyes tracked the way his shoulders were hunched and how the fabric of his shirt stretched over his tense back, revealing the muscles underneath. His sleeves were rolled up, but not in the careful, polished way of some corporate guy. No, with him it looked more rushed, like they'd been shoved up in frustration.

Overall, his presence didn't exactly radiate welcoming energy. More like he was withdrawn, bitter, or simply exhausted.

You immediately felt bad for him.

"He looks sad," you said, tilting your head slightly.

Ruby scoffed. "A five-figure salary lands in his account every month. And that's not even counting Daddy's trust fund. Trust me, he's everything but sad."

"Do you know him?" you asked, shifting your gaze toward Ruby's judgmental eyes.

She always formed opinions about people before actually getting to know them. So maybe she was just guessing and making assumptions again. Though he did look upper-class. A CEO, maybe.

She raised a brow, disbelief tugging at her smile. "Honey, do you live in the last corner of the swamp? That's—"

"Ladies, tea time is over."

You and Ruby turned at the sound of Silas' voice, spotting the manager in his all-black suit, silver hair slicked back today.

He raised his brows expectantly, gesturing toward the main lounge with his thumb, several golden rings gleaming across his knuckles. "Ruby, the gentlemen at Table Five asked for a table dance. If you need to freshen up, do it now." He grimaced. "And if Mr. Doublechin gets handsy again without paying first, tell him Larry will kindly escort him out."

Ruby chuckled, adjusting her spiked bra. "I've come prepared, but I'll let him know."

After she disappeared behind the velvet curtains leading to the dressing rooms, Silas turned to you with a sigh. "Kitty, I have a special request for you."

"Oh?" You blinked curiously. "Did Mr. Hemingway ask for the Playroom again?"

Hemingway was a funny-looking man with an odd personality who only ever requested services tied to the darker pleasures inside the After Midnight. Ruby usually handled those, except one time when he specifically requested you.

Surprisingly enough, he was one of the most respectful guests.

Silas adjusted his rings, shaking his head. "He's out of town for the next two weeks. I wouldn't want your intellect wasted on him anyway." His lips twitched, caught somewhere between amusement and irritation. "No, I believe you're suited for a more difficult customer. Though right now, the only service he's making use of is the bar."

Your gaze followed his toward the sad-looking loner at the counter.

Him?

An intrigued, almost excited smile tugged at your lips. "We do offer great drinks."

Even if he was still drinking bitter whiskey, a taste you never quite managed to enjoy.

"We also offer a great number of beautiful women, but it seems he has no thirst for that at the moment," Silas said, glaring at the back of the man's head before looking back at you. "Which is why you'll make sure to offer him a flavor he can't resist."

You crossed your arms, brows furrowing thoughtfully. "Ruby said he already turned Lacey and Dove down. Maybe he's just not interested in female company."

That made Silas bark out a laugh. "My dear, trust me, he'd sue the entire club and me personally if I sent a male suitor his way. And I'd rather collect his money than have him use it against me."

Once again, there was talk of ridiculous amounts of money surrounding the mysterious loner.

But before you could ask who exactly he was, Silas placed a gentle hand against your upper back and nudged you toward the bar. "Which is why you'll make Mr. Cameron's first time here worth his while." He leaned closer, voice dropping into a low murmur against your ear. "Maybe you'll even charm him into becoming a returning customer. We'd both profit from that."

Straightening again, he offered you a kind but insistent smile. "And he definitely looks like he could use a sweet kitty purring on his lap."

You blinked, remaining rooted to the spot. "Cameron? As in Cameron Estates?"

Of course, you knew that name. It was plastered across countless ads on the streets. But he looked a little young to be the CEO of such a massive company.

"Oh, no. Not the father." Silas scoffed, adjusting his dark mustache. "Cameron as in Cameron & Carrera Counseling. And technically it's Doctor, but let's not use that in here. He'd probably take it as a jab."

Counseling.

He was a therapist?

Didn't exactly look the part with that grim aura radiating off him. But somehow that only made him more interesting, a strange pull beginning to form inside your chest.

Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you crossed the lounge, passing the main stage where Lacey currently performed on the pole while hungry eyes followed every movement she made. Two men tried to pull you into conversation, a couple hundred-dollar bills already clutched in their fingers, but you politely declined, claiming your slot had already been taken.

In your head, you tried to figure out what kind of man Mr. Loner Cameron was. Most men who entered this place could usually be divided into three categories, though all of them belonged somewhere between upper-middle and upper class.

The shameless type—men who didn't hold back their lust, loud men desperate to be noticed, never particularly restrained when it came to money or physical contact. They usually sat in open VIP lounges with their little friend groups, women draped across their laps and shoulders. That didn't always make them disrespectful or disgusting, but they were still the group you tended to avoid.

Then there were the quiet guys. They usually came alone or with a friend, booked a table to talk while some woman entertained them, or reserved private sessions in advance. Most of them were single because work consumed too much of their lives to leave room for a relationship, so instead they filled that emptiness through the services offered here.

And of course, there were the men interested in an entirely different side of the club—the Playroom. The part of After Midnight meant for guests whose needs—Silas had taught you never to call them fetishes, because some men found the term insulting—could only be satisfied by a very specific kind of service allowed under the club's rules.

It was for men who liked submitting to women in non-sexual ways. Spanking, roleplay, things like that. For safety reasons, any dynamic involving the man taking control was strictly forbidden.

So which category did the mysterious loner belong to?

Not-the-father Cameron was currently pulling fifty dollars from his thick wallet, your eyes catching on the dozens of bills practically suffocating inside it. A massive fish for a cat who usually chased older mice.

He was already on his feet, frowning at something Larry behind the counter had said, and nearly bumped straight into you with how quickly he turned to leave, like he'd suddenly remembered an important appointment.

"Watch it," he muttered, irritation sharp in his tired voice, blue eyes first dropping to your pushed-up cleavage and the metallic heart dangling from your collar before slowly traveling up to your face.

What a pretty face, you thought as you met his irritated expression with a playful smile. And God, he smelled good.

Not drowned in some overly sharp cologne that ruined your senses, no, he smelled simple. Fresh and soft, something aquatic mixed with green tea.

Expensive, but effortless.

You glanced at his half-empty glass with a soft chuckle. "Whiskey not your kind of drink?"

"Sure is," he answered, almost sounding offended.

And before he could continue—possibly explaining why he hadn't finished it—you cut in teasingly. "You look more like a cocktail guy, though."

You mirrored his earlier gaze, letting your eyes wander over his face, down his broad shoulders hidden beneath the cream-colored button-up, the golden ring on his left hand, all the way to his dark pants and matte dress shoes.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips as you did so, the weary set of his shoulders loosening slightly into something more playful, more willing to indulge you. "Do I now?"

"Mhm," you hummed teasingly, subtly adjusting your posture so your cleavage was presented more directly to him. "I bet a Pretty Little Disaster would suit your taste. It's No. 16 on the menu."

Still-nameless Cameron raised a brow, his smirk widening into a lazy grin as he stared shamelessly at your chest. "You offering to be mine?"

The soft giggle leaving your lips came naturally. "Depends."

"On what?" His eyes drifted slowly over your body, taking in your skirted panties, garter straps, and heart-adorned lace stockings. "Whether I can afford you?"

Careful now.

A strip club revolved around money—spending it on women and services—but no man liked being reminded of exactly how much he was paying, or that everything here was ultimately transactional.

And Dr. Cameron right here seemed like someone who didn't even want to be inside a place like this in the first place, let alone leave bills tucked into a stripper's panties.

No, it felt more like he was here for a reason he didn't fully understand himself.

He looked out of place. Lost. Like he was searching for an escape or distraction from whatever problem haunted him outside the A.M.

And part of you wanted to understand him, make him feel better, let him forget the real world for just an hour.

"No," you said softly, resting your hand near his against the back of the bar stool. "You look like you could afford to book the entire club if you wanted to."

Your thumb gently brushed over his as you looked at him with playful eyes. "What I meant is whether you're ready for another disaster cause it looks like you've already experienced one today."

That made his expression loosen, the arrogant mask slipping for just a second, revealing something raw and hollowed out in his eyes before he recovered quickly.

He let out a condescending chuckle, gaze dropping briefly to your fingers before he pulled away from your touch. "I have no interest in owning a pit hole like this for lonely losers throwing cash at fake Barbies."

The easy smile on your face faltered at his crude words, and before you could stop yourself, you smoothly withdrew your hand to fiddle with the heart charm on your collar.

He's got kind eyes, but knows exactly how to bite where it'll hurt.

And still, you felt a strange sense of empathy for him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes tracking your fidgeting, the sharp edge gone from his voice, leaving behind only exhausted roughness. “That was... It was a fucking shitty thing to say.” He grimaced, shaking his head with a self-deprecating smile. “I'm not an asshole, okay? I’m just…”

A shaky sigh left his lips, a hollow expression flickering across his features once more as he met your eyes. There was a turmoil of intense emotions in them, all marked by the same silent plea for understanding.

Ironic, coming from a therapist.

“Exhausted?” you asked gently, finishing the sentence for him.

His eyes widened a fraction, as if surprised by your understanding. Then he nodded, the defiant demeanor slowly crumbling beneath whatever weight rested on his shoulders. “Roughest day I've had in months.”

Maybe something happened at his practice?

So what he needed wasn't a lap dance or a strip tease, but simple company. Someone he could share his burden with.

Your fingers stopped their playful movement around your collar. Instead, you placed them back onto the wooden barstool, rebuilding that small point of connection between you.

"Sounds like you need to unwind a little," you said softly, understanding replacing your teasing tone. Your hand on your thigh toyed with one of your garter straps. You really wanted to initiate physical contact, but his earlier reaction made you cautious.

The guarded expression returned immediately, and he lifted his chin slightly as his eyes traveled over you again, assessing you more carefully this time. "I'm not here to have some girl grind on me."

What a funny guy he was, walking into a strip club like he'd accidentally taken a wrong turn.

"I wasn't talking about humping your knee, Silly," you replied with a sweet chuckle that turned his cheeks the faintest shade of pink.

Your playful smile returned as you leaned forward again, presenting your chest to him more directly. "And I'm a woman, not a girl."

It was cute how he fell for the move every single time, his gaze dropping again automatically. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, brows pulling together in a failed attempt to regain composure. "I can see that."

Then he looked back up, something serious, almost paternal, flickering in his eyes. "Still, you look way too young to be running around in underwear in a room full of predators. How old are you exactly?"

In other words: Are you even legal? Will I get into trouble if I decide to engage with you?

"Old enough to make my own decisions," you replied with a girlish smile, tilting your head to challenge him. "And you? Five more years until retirement?"

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, genuine amusement finally gleaming in his eyes. Though it looked like you'd awakened something else too.

The same look every other man in this place eventually wore, some simply better at hiding it than others.

Hunger.

"You're an insolent brat," he said, though there was no real bite behind the words. He straightened his posture slightly, sliding his hand across the barstool to bring it closer to yours. "Unfortunately, I'm nowhere near ready to sit my ass in a rocking chair and ogle the tits of grandmas."

You laughed at his choice of words and caught his own smile widening in response. "'Unfortunately'? I mean, if older women are your thing, Pandora might be more your taste. Great build." You made a cupping gesture around your own boobs. "She even offers a service related to that. Unless you're lactose intolerant?"

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck." Not-into-cougars Cameron twisted his face into a grimace, laughing despite his best efforts. "Nah, I'd rather keep her box closed."

Sweet. A pun.

You mirrored his grin, soaking in the way he visibly loosened up around you. "Then I guess you'll just have to settle for what I have to offer."

"Princess, you're too young," he argued, the heat in his gaze fading back into something more restrained. "And I already told you I'm not interested in that kind of service."

"It's Kitty," you corrected him, fully aware he was only using a term of endearment. One hand settled on your hip while the other slid from the barstool to lightly tap against his chest. "And I told you that's not what I'm offering."

His eyes dropped to your finger before lifting back to your face. "Fine. What exactly could stripper Kitty possibly offer me to brighten this absolute trainwreck of a day besides swaying her hips in front of my face?"

Silly man. All grim expressions and dry remarks.

"How about another drink and the pleasure of my simple company?" you offered easily, stepping closer to invade his personal space while batting your lashes at him with a smile too sweet to refuse. "Cats are great listeners. Everybody knows that. And their purring has healing effects."

"Is that so?" he chuckled, making no move to step away. "Then what's stopping me from going home to my own kitty and letting her sit on my lap? At least she isn't trying to rob me blind."

A cat owner.

You'd taken him for a dog person.

You flashed him a grin that showed off your canines. “I don’t shed, and my breath doesn’t smell like tuna. And I bet I cost only half as much as your diva does in a week.”

“Then let me hear how much you're planning to drain from my wallet,” he chuckled, his demeanor opening more and more with every passing second. “And we can compare maintenance costs.”

In that moment, you decided to take a risk.

There was a chance you'd walk away from this with no profit at all—not a single bill tucked into your bra—and possibly even a warning from Silas, followed by less pay that month to compensate for the loss.

But you knew naming a concrete price right now would instantly turn the little game between you into an obvious transaction. And if he disliked the amount—or felt provoked by it—you'd lose a potential customer entirely.

And this one, you definitely wanted to keep on the hook.

Not just because his wallet alone carried more cash than you made in a month.

No, part of you genuinely wanted to know what had ruined his day badly enough for a man like him to end up lost inside a strip club he clearly never intended to visit.

“Let’s not talk numbers yet,” you said, offering him a kind smile. “How about I help take some of today's weight off your shoulders first, and we handle the formalities afterward? What do you say, Mr...?”

He seemed surprised you didn't know his name. Or maybe he simply hadn't expected you not to insist on payment immediately.

Either way, the corners of his mouth tugged downward into an amused smile. "Rafe. None of that Mister shit. Makes me feel old."

A pretty name for a pretty face.

Though you couldn't help but wonder how old he actually was. He didn't look a day over his mid-twenties.

"Rafe, then. I like it." You nodded, absentmindedly tracing a tiny heart against his chest with your index finger. "So, should I take that as a yes?"

For a moment, he only watched you, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, probably weighing whether you were worth the unspoken price or if he should just go home and curl up with his alleged kitten instead.

Then his eyes fluttered shut, brows knitting together as a tired breath slipped from his lips.

Finally, he nodded. "Okay. Yes. Lead the way."

You nearly let out an excited giggle. Instead, your fingers slid down his chest before grabbing his hand, holding onto it as he instinctively flinched at the contact.

"Don't be shy. I won't bite," you teased, already starting to walk and dragging him behind you without looking back, aside from one quick glance over your shoulder that caught the sheepish look crossing his face. "Unless you want me to."

A low chuckle left him as he followed you across the opposite side of the club, weaving through tables and past semi-secluded lounge areas toward the private solo rooms. Each elegant black door was decorated with golden numbering, a red or green light glowing above it, depending on availability.

Suite No. 3 was usually yours.

You greeted Dana with a small wave, the broad-shouldered woman standing nearby to intervene if any guest inside the rooms forgot how to follow the rules.

She nodded back at you before throwing Rafe a dark, assessing glance from head to toe. His hand tightened around yours as she did.

Men tended to dislike Dana, while every woman in the club felt safer just from her presence alone.

The door to Suite 3 slid open after you pressed a button. It closed automatically once you hit another switch inside, shutting out the laughter, music, and voices from the main hall.

Now it was just the two of you, and the glamour of the room around you.

Dim lighting drenched the space in soft crimson intimacy, reflecting off the silver pole in the center and the mirrored walls surrounding it. From the sound system streamed a slow, sensual beat, your nerves already itching for a performance.

You took a few more steps with him toward the middle of the room before letting go of his hand to gesture toward the curved velvet couch facing the pole. "Go on, please. Take a seat."

But Rafe stayed where he was, eyes fixed on the pole, some unreadable emotion flickering across his face before he finally moved. He sank stiffly into the leather couch, legs spread, hands resting awkwardly in his lap, looking anywhere but at you.

"Thirsty?" you asked gently, walking over to the stocked liquor cabinet with its built-in cooler system. Your gel nails drummed patiently against the wooden surface as you leaned against it, deliberately presenting your ass toward him.

Rafe stared for a second too long before clearing his throat and nodding. "Whiskey."

"Again?" You already pulled out a glass and bottle. "We also have champagne, tequila, soda, or water."

That made him scoff. "Who the fuck drinks water in here?"

"Me, Silly," you replied with a chuckle, pouring a generous amount of amber liquid into the glass. "Hydration is important. We even have a small juice selection."

"Yeah, I bet," he snorted, throwing a suspicious glance at the leather cushions.

With a soft thud, you placed the glass and bottle onto the side table, smiling sweetly when his eyes immediately landed on your cleavage. "You have a naughty brain. Sexual activities are strictly forbidden throughout the entire club."

"And you believe that?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the conviction in his voice. "Yes, of course. Those are the rules."

"Hm," he hummed, eyeing you in a way that almost made you feel pitied. "And who makes sure people actually follow them?"

"Our manager and security, of course."

Rafe glanced around before shrugging. "Don't see either of them in here."

"Don't be silly," you replied, straightening again, amused by his questioning. "That would be very awkward for you."

But he didn't smile. "Then what's stopping you or your coworkers from making a few extra bucks through a quick fling?"

That made you pause. "Why would we do that?"

"Because there are bastards who take advantage of nice girls like you, Kitty," he said, every trace of playfulness gone now. "Manipulative fucking predators who know exactly how to talk. They make you think they're only asking when really they're pushing for it through sweet compliments, making you believe you actually want it."

Your own demeanor faltered, though you forced out a light giggle as you turned toward the pole, feeling his gaze drift to your ass once more. "You think I'm nice?"

You peeked back over your shoulder before turning fully, one hand wrapping around the cold metal pole. Slowly, you started swaying your hips to the rhythm of the music.

Rafe let out a frustrated breath, his eyes following your face rather than the movement of your body. "You seem like a very nice girl, yes. But that's not what I was trying to say. Men are—"

"Talkers," you cut in with a smile as you moved into a slow, sensual dance around the pole. "I know. They chatter and chatter like a flock of magpies and never know when to shut their beaks."

You slid down onto your knees, holding his gaze while rolling your body against the pole. "They like shiny things. The way a woman's body gleams under neon lights. How it curves." You arched your back slightly.

"How it feels." One hand slid over your throat, down your chest, over the bare skin of your stomach.

"How it sounds." You rose in one fluid motion, a soft moan slipping from your lips as you pressed yourself against the pole.

Rafe adjusted his position on the couch, spreading his legs a little farther apart as his eyes briefly flicked to where your body met the metal pole. When he spoke again, his voice came out rougher than before. "Magpies are intelligent. Men are not."

A startled laugh escaped you as you threw your head back, twirling around the pole with one knee hooked around it.

"It's not funny," he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His gaze dropped to a point somewhere in front of him, blank and hollow as he reached for the drink beside him. "One is a cruel animal chasing after precious, innocent things they can stain and ruin. The other is just an annoying bird. You can't compare these two."

He took a large swig from the glass and emptied it in one go, a bitter sigh leaving his lips afterward. His hands trembled faintly, eyes still fixed on the rug. "Magpies kill because it's biologically necessary."

He swallowed hard, his voice reduced to a broken rasp. "Men do it just because they can."

The smile disappeared from your face entirely, your movements coming to a stop as your fingers tightened around the pole.

The air in the room shifted from teasing playfulness into something heavier, gloomier. Like a dark cloud had settled over the space, thick with pressure, waiting to empty itself onto everything beneath it.

He slowly raised his head again.

The look on his face when he met your eyes was so hollow, so consumed by grief and some deep-writhing emotion you couldn't even begin to name.

"They take something good and kind and use it like a toy," he said quietly. "They twist it and break it and throw it around, abuse the innocence and devour what's supposed to be sacred until there's nothing left."

A faint shimmer had appeared in his eyes now, his voice stripped raw.

"And the worst kind of men are the ones staining the goodness under their own roof." He pressed his lips together, his neck and ears flushing red from holding back whatever rot was eating him alive from the inside out. "A magpie would never touch its own kin."

His jaw tightened. "A man would."

That was the cloud finally breaking loose. His words were a heavy black rain, drenched in pain and hurt, threatening to poison your senses. Shared grief now pressed down onto the atmosphere inside the room, daring to suffocate you with it.

And the worst part?

It reeked familiar.

Your knuckles hurt from how tightly you gripped the pole; your gaze locked onto him. And when you finally spoke, your voice came out quiet, all earlier confidence gone. "Is that what brought you here today?"

A single nod answered you.

Such a small movement carrying so much pain and grief, so many unspoken words. He didn't need to explain further for you to understand the weight he'd been dragging on his shoulders when he walked into the club.

Rafe swallowed hard, his lips trembling as he reached for the bottle again. A tremor ran through his hand while he filled the glass too far, whiskey spilling over the rim and onto the wooden table.

But he didn't react.

He simply set the bottle back down with a hard thud and stared into the drink in his hands.

"One session was enough for me to understand the kind of life she came from." His voice sounded rough and pained, his free hand curling into a tight fist against his knee. "A little girl whose worried teacher drove her to my practice and paid for the appointment herself.”

"I'm a therapist," he clarified with a broken smile tugging at his lips, and you didn't interrupt him to say you already knew. "I don't specialize in pre-adolescent patients which is why she was supposed to be assigned to my colleague, but her schedule was full. So, I took her anyway for the initial consultation."

A hollow chuckle escaped him.

"She reminded me of my youngest sister. Energetic, smart, impressively articulate for her age. Creative too. Could've filled entire books with stories better than the garbage kids are forced to read nowadays."

The sentence gutted you from the inside out.

"'Could have'...?" you asked quietly, though you already dreaded the answer.

Rafe looked up again, his expression twisting into rage and helpless fury before crumbling apart completely, tears now visibly warring in his eyes. "She never showed up to her second session. It was scheduled today."

He stared back down into his drink. “And I’m sitting in a fucking jerk-off club while she’s…”

He swallowed hard. “Fuck.”

Then he downed the entire glass in one large gulp, not even flinching this time, and slammed it back onto the table hard enough to make you jump.

In one fluid motion, Rafe rose to his feet, slightly unsteady, and pulled out his thick wallet. He fished out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills without even counting them before tossing it onto the table. “Should be enough to cover your rent and bills for this month.”

He moved so fast you could barely follow, your eyes frozen on the thick stack of cash.

But when he tried to move past you, something inside you reacted instinctively, and before you could think twice, your body stepped into motion.

“Be a good kitty and step aside,” he said quietly, glassy eyes fixed on yours as you blocked the door. The exhaustion in his voice scratched at the part of you that simply couldn't let him leave yet.

His soul was hurting, and something deep inside you wanted to fix that.

So you stood your ground, shaking your head, too startled by your own audacity to speak.

His weary expression hardened into something grim. "I paid you. We're done here."

"We're not," you replied softly, placing your hands against his chest when he tried to brush past you. "You can't leave like this."

Rafe’s brows twitched—irritation, confusion, probably both—and he stayed still for the moment. “Like what?”

Like you're in no state to go home. Or drive. Like you're one second away from breaking down completely, from hurting yourself or someone else with all this grief and anger rotting inside you.

But instead, you whispered: “Like you’re blaming yourself for what happened to her.”

Your words landed like a blow.

Rafe's entire face twisted with agony and sorrow, self-inflicted guilt written across every feature. His lips trembled like a child trying desperately not to cry.

"Because that's exactly how it is," he replied, his voice shaking, another wave of self-hatred washing over his face—something far older and deeper than this single tragedy alone. "I could've prevented it. One fucking call and she would've been dragged out of that shithole she called home the very same day, and she never would've taken that leap."

A choked sob finally broke free. “But I didn’t.”

Rafe took a step back, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes before shaking his head violently, gesturing toward his chest with rough frustration while angry tears filled his gaze. “Because I listened to my fucking supervisor instead of trusting my gut.”

A resentful smile pulled at his lips. "No reportable evidence, he said. Just concern based on instincts. Told me to document everything, keep seeing her, and avoid impulsive decisions that could cost me my license."

He gestured sharply toward the door, voice suddenly rising. “Now I still have my fucking license and she’s dead.”

The words came out ugly and brutal.

The ache inside him carved a deep abyss between the two of you, one threatening to swallow you whole if you stepped too close.

And it was hard not to let it.

The pain he carried for this faceless little girl without a name reached your soul in a way nothing else had in a very long time.

Part of you wanted to retreat, let him leave, let him storm out of the club and disappear back into the night while you returned to your shift. Let another customer book the room, and let wandering hands roam over your body for less than the money currently sitting on the table.

And yet Rafe's words had touched you more tonight than anyone's hands ever had.

He had opened himself up to you. Bared a part of himself he probably rarely let anyone see. Men like him hated crying; the world taught them to. More than that, they hated being witnessed while doing it.

Vulnerability was a luxury most men believed they couldn’t afford.

But to you, it was something precious. A gift.

A man letting his guard down enough to reveal the layers beneath himself—that was worth more than all the money in the world.

Which was exactly why you decided to expand the safety of Suite Number 3.

Carefully, you moved toward him, the sound of your heels softened by the thick carpet beneath your feet as you crossed the abyss between the two of you.

“It’s not your fault,” you said quietly, trying to catch his gaze with gentle understanding.

His eyes looked glazed and hollow, alcohol and grief leaving him utterly wrecked. Every ounce of energy seemed drained from him.

You reached for his upper arm, rubbing soothing circles into the fabric of his sleeve. “You did what you believed was right in that moment. You consulted your supervisor and followed his instructions. You couldn’t have known what would happen after a single session.”

“Yes, I could have.” Rafe nodded immediately, face twisting into a bitter grimace as he looked away from you toward the floor. “There were signs—I know there were—and I chose to ignore them. I failed my responsibility.”

His lips trembled again, dangerously close to another sob.

“She needed help and I…” His voice cracked. “I fucking failed her.”

And finally, the dam broke.

The tears he'd been desperately fighting spilled freely at last.

You didn’t hesitate.

Instinctively, you closed the final step between you, your hand sliding from his arm up to his shoulder while the other moved behind his neck.

Rafe’s body tensed instantly beneath your touch, every muscle drawn tight from the sudden embrace.

But the moment your fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck, and your head rested against the frantic beating of his heart beneath his chest, his resistance shattered completely.

In one fluid motion, his arms wrapped beneath your shoulders and around your torso, pulling you flush against him while his forehead dropped into the crook of your neck.

Raw, messy sobs shook through him, dampening your bare shoulder.

But you didn’t care.

Because in that moment he wasn’t a stranger.

Just another wounded soul trying to share his burden with another.

“The people around her failed her,” you whispered soothingly, though keeping your own tears under control was becoming difficult. “The ones who deliberately ignored her pain. The ones who pushed her to that point in the first place.”

Your fingers cupped the back of his head gently, holding him there. "You took her in even though she wasn't part of your specialization. You gave her a safe space, even if it was only for an hour, and you listened to her."

Your thumb brushed softly through his hair. "And what happened afterward wasn't you ignoring her. It was you reaching out in an attempt to get her help, but in the end, you settled on sticking to the rules of your profession. You worked within the circumstances you were allowed to."

You tightened your embrace slightly. “So, it wasn’t you who failed her. It was the system.”

He responded with an equally tight squeeze, sobbing into your shoulder like a boy clinging to his mother. You wondered if this was the first time in a long while that he'd allowed himself to be held like that.

Grown men either had a wife they could turn to, or they didn't.

And the men who wandered into strip clubs were usually the loneliest kind. Or cheating assholes. There was rarely anything in between.

Rafe wore a golden ring around his index finger, though it looked more like a family heirloom than a wedding band. And he didn’t strike you as the disloyal type.

“You’re smarter than half the bastards in my profession,” he murmured, barely audible against your skin. “And just as decent as my own kitty.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips at that. “I bet you take great care of her.”

"I do." He inhaled your scent, sending goosebumps prickling across your skin. "And you don't smell like spoiled attitude the way she does."

“Oh, I definitely have attitude too.”

He let out a weak scoff. “A stubborn brat. That much hasn't escaped me.”

Another minute passed in the intimacy of your embrace. The sensual music surrounding you and the soft red glow overhead made Suite No. 3 feel like far more than just another room inside a strip club.

Rafe wasn’t the first stranger you’d held in your arms here. Many men came looking for simple company, someone willing to listen.

But he was the first one who had touched more than just your body.

Which was ironic, considering there had been no physical intimacy beyond this embrace.

Eventually, he pulled away.

The movement was slow, making your hands slide down from around his neck to rest against his chest while his own lingered on your upper arms.

Warmth spread through your chest at the sight of the harsh edges in his face softening into something quieter. Some reluctant form of acceptance.

Maybe acceptance of the situation. Maybe of himself.

Or maybe the strong whiskey had simply done its job and numbed some of the pain weighing him down. Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow morning with the same heavy cloud pressing against his shoulders all over again.

But perhaps you’d helped some of that weight spill over tonight, enough to let him breathe just a little easier, even if only for a moment.

It looked like he wanted to say something, lips parting slightly before he stopped himself. Instead, he slowly let go of you, the weary softness in his face hardening back into a defensive mask.

He gestured toward the bundle of cash on the table. “I expect you to keep all of it. No handing over whatever cut your manager demands.”

Your hands slipped from his chest, lips already parting to argue, but he cut you off with a firm shake of his head. “Silas, right?”

You nodded.

"He'll get his share," Rafe said, authority slipping back into his voice. "I'll make sure he receives it personally." He pointed toward you. "So don't you dare hand any of that over. It's yours, Kitty. Understood?"

“But—”

“No.” His brows furrowed, somehow looking completely sober despite the wrecked exhaustion written across his features. “I insist.”

Your mouth snapped shut.

Arguing with him felt pointless. You’d already figured that much out from the little back-and-forth you'd shared tonight.

“That fucker will be generously compensated, I promise you,” Rafe continued, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe at the mess his tears had left against your shoulder. “And if he still demands a cut, let me know and I’ll have a nice little conversation with him.”

What would Silas say about being insulted like that?

A startled laugh escaped your lips. “You’re a silly guy. How exactly am I supposed to let you know? Telepathy?”

Rafe smiled faintly, shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket before taking a small step backward.

“You’re a smart kitty,” he said. “I’m sure you’d find a way.” A knowing glint flickered in his eyes. “That is, of course, if we continue pretending you don’t actually know who I am.”

What a sly man.

“An arrogant customer,” you replied teasingly, matching his playfulness.

He scoffed softly and started walking toward the door alongside you. “I trust you'll keep your little snout shut about exactly which customer visited you tonight, correct?”

You gifted him your sweetest smile, clasping your hands together in front of your stomach and, intentionally or not, presented your cleavage to him one last time.

And of course, he looked.

“Don’t worry,” you said, flashing your canines again. “No one will ever know Dr. Cameron set foot inside this club.”

𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒕 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 ᨐฅ

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

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