I said what I said

"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

if your name is listed here, it's because you chose this genre on my taglist form. if you want to be removed, just fill out the form again.

“i’m not just mad, rafe.” your voice cracks this time, and you hate that it does. “i’m tired of this shit.” that makes him pause for a second. but then he shakes his head like he’s rejecting it completely, like the idea itself pisses him off. “tired of what, huh?” he presses, leaning in closer. “me? or the fact you don’t get to control everything?”

you scoff, finally yanking one hand free, shoving against his chest. he barely moves. “this, this right here,” you gesture between you, frustration spilling over, “you don’t listen. you don’t care about what i want unless it lines up with what you want.” his eyes darken at that. “that’s not true.”

“it is,” you shoot back immediately. “i said we’re done.” his tongue drags across his bottom lip, like he’s holding himself back from saying something or doing something worse. “no,” it’s quieter this time. your brows pull together. “what do you mean no?” he lets out a breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly, like you’re the one not getting it. “i mean you don’t get to decide that on your own.” your stomach drops at how calm he suddenly sounds. “rafe-”

“you think you can just walk away from me?” he cuts in, voice low again, stepping closer until there’s barely any space left between you. “after everything? after you let it get this far?” your back hits the dresser fully now. “that’s not how this works.” your heart is pounding from anger and nerves. pounding from him being too close, like always.

“that’s exactly how it works,” you say, but it comes out less certain this time, and you mentally kick yourself because you know he’ll notice that, and exploit that. his gaze flickers to your lips for half a second before coming back to your eyes, a slow, almost satisfied exhale leaving him. “see?” he murmurs. “you don’t even sound sure.”

“i am sure,” you insist, but you don’t move away or don’t push him back this time. his hand comes up, slower now, less force, brushing against your jaw, not quite gentle, but not rough either. “then go,” he says quietly. but doesn’t move. he doesn't give you the space to breathe. just stands there. 

“go!” he repeats. “door’s right there.” but he still doesn’t step back from you, nor give you space to pass. that infuriates you even more. you shove his chest harder this time. “you’re so full of shit.” his head snaps slightly at that, brows pulling together. “excuse me?”

“you tell me to leave, but you’re standing right in front of me like you’re waiting for me not to,” your voice sharpens, frustration spilling over. “like always.” his jaw tightens. “because you don’t.” 

“that doesn’t mean i won’t this time.”

“yeah?” he steps closer again, like he can’t help himself. “you’ve said that before.” and that hits you in the chest, because you know he’s right. your grip tightens around your bag. “that’s exactly the problem, rafe. this-” you gesture between you, shaking your head, “this keeps happening.”

“because you keep coming back,” he shoots back immediately, like he’s been waiting to say it. you let out a breath, incredulous. “you think it’s just me?”

“don’t twist it,” he snaps. “you show up, and text me. you come into my room like nothing’s changed-”

“because you pull me back every time!” your voice raises now, breaking through his. “you don’t let anything end, you don’t let anything be done, you just-” you cut yourself off, frustration settling in, shaking your head. he watches you, chest rising, eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s trying to figure out and fight at the same time. “you act like you don’t want this,” he says, quieter now, but sharper. “like you’re so over it.”

“i should be,” you fire back. “we’re not even together, rafe. we haven’t been.” those few words hit him like a moving truck, making his expression shift. “yeah,” he mutters, almost under his breath. “whose fault is that?” you blink watching as he can’t be vulnerable, having this hard tough guy act, but why with you?. “mine?”

“you’re the one who didn’t wanna make it official again,” he says, stepping back just enough to run a hand through his hair, pacing. “you’re the one who said ‘no labels,’ remember?”

“because of this!” you throw your hands up. “because we always end up right back here, arguing and yelling, you not listening-”

“i listen.” you laugh, short and bitter. “no, you don’t. you hear what you want, and then you do whatever the hell you were gonna do anyway.” his eyes flash at that. “that’s not fair.”

“neither is this,” you shoot back, softer now but no less intense. “you don’t get to keep me like this, rafe.” he stills completely. “like what?” his voice drops again. you hesitate saying it, but then you say it anyway. “like something you can pick up whenever you feel like it,” you swallow. “and put down when it gets too hard.”

his reaction is too immediate, “that’s not what this is.” he almost yells. “then what is it?” you challenge, stepping toward him now. “because we’re not together. we fight every other time we see each other. and yet-” your voice falters slightly, “i’m still here.”

his eyes soften for a split second at that, but it’s leaves just as fast. “yeah,” he says quietly. “you are.” your chest tightens. “that’s not a good thing.”

“maybe not,” he shrugs slightly, but there’s tension in it, something real under the surface. “but you’re still here anyway.” you shake your head, backing up a step now. “this is exactly why i didn’t wanna do this again.”

“do what?” he presses. “us.” your voice is barely controlled now. “whatever this is. the hooking up, the pretending it doesn’t mean anything when it clearly does,”

“then just stop pretending,” he cuts in, suddenly closer again. you freeze. his voice is lower now, more intense than before. “you think i don’t see it?” he says, eyes locked onto yours. “you think i don’t notice the way you look at me? the way you come back every time even after you swear you’re done?” your breath catches. “you’re not over it either.”

“that doesn’t mean this is good,” you whisper. he exhales, running a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through now. “i don’t care if it’s good,” he finally admits. “i just..” he stops himself, jaw tightening. you stare at him. “you just what?”

“i’m not letting you walk out like you don't care!.”

your heart breaks a little, because all you wanted was a sign that he wanted this as much as you did. and that’s what makes it worse. you swallow, gripping your bag tighter. “rafe…” you say, but you don’t move and he notices that again. his gaze drops to your lips for half a second before coming back up, something almost darkly satisfied settling in. “yeah,” he murmurs. “that’s what i thought.”

the shift in energy is almost instant. like all the softness meant nothing. one second the space is filled with heavy tension, but now it’s making a turn for the worst. you shake your head, backing up, voice tight. “this is pointless. you’re not even hearing m-”

“no, i hear you,” he cuts in sharply, something mean slipping into his tone now. “i just think it’s funny.” your brows pull together. “what’s funny?” he lets out a dry laugh, pacing once like he’s working himself up. “you standing here acting like you’re some victim in this.” your stomach drops slightly. “a victim? i’m not acting like anything-”

“yeah, you are,” he interrupts, harsher now. “like i’m the problem, like i’m the one keeping you here.” you stare at him. “you are part of the problem, rafe-”

“or maybe,” he cuts in again, voice sharper, colder, “you just like what comes with me.”

you feel like you just got slapped in the face, your hands start trembling of hurt, of anger, or that irritation voice on your shoulder telling you to yell back, to disrespect him like he just did you. “…what?” is all that manages to come out. he shrugs, but it’s defensive,  like he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t care.

“the bags, the clothes, the shit i buy you,” he gestures vaguely toward your purse. the one he just got you, the one you were just shoving all your shit in, “all of it.”

“don’t..” your voice shakes slightly, “don’t do that.”

but he’s already too far in. “what?” he scoffs. “you gonna tell me you don’t like it? you don’t like showing it off?” his eyes drag over you, cruel now. “walking around like that, acting like it’s not mine?” those words hit you hard, like something physically just knocked the air out of you. “you think i’m with you for your fucking money?” your voice is loud and sharp, hurt bleeding through every word.

he doesn’t hesitate like he’s had this thought for ages, and it’s just now coming out. “i think it doesn’t hurt.” your vision blurs almost instantly, tears filling your eyes before you can stop them. you shake your head slowly, like you’re trying to process what he just said.

“wow.” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, but he doesn’t take it back, or try to fix it. “you really think that low of me?” you whisper. “you think i’m like every other kook bitch on the island who wants your money?” you ask louder, “you really think that’s why i’ve stayed, and had your back through everything? for purses and dinners?” you say letting out all your frustration. 

he doesn’t answer right away. and somehow, that’s even worse. your let out a laugh, shaky and disbelieving, tears slipping down your cheeks now. “i have never, not once, needed anything from you, rafe.” he looks at you, but there’s still that edge there, like he’s too deep in his own anger to pull himself out.

“then why are you still here?” he throws back. and that’s the final blow, your teared eyes widen in shock, not expecting him to say anything worse, but it just piles on. “because i loved you.”

his expression flickers, just for a second, but you don’t let him speak, don’t give him the chance. “because i wanted you,” your voice cracks, tears falling faster now. “not your money, not your stupid gifts, not any of that, just you.” he takes a step toward you. “y/n-”

“no,” you snap, backing away quickly, grabbing your keys off the dresser with shaking hands. you dump the purse of your things, throwing the bag at his chest.  “you don’t get to take it all back now” panic flashes across his face now, the anger leaving. “hey, hey, i didn’t mean-”

“yes, you did,” you cut him off, voice breaking. “you said it. you thought it.” you turn toward the door, wiping at your face but it does nothing, tears still streaming uncontrollably. “y/n, stop-” he moves after you. “don’t follow me!” you spin back for a second, voice shaking but loud. 

“baby, i’m sorry, please-” he begs, but you shove him back. you stare at him for a second longer, chest heaving, then shake your head. “fuck you, rafe cameron.” your voice cracks on his name. For the first time all night you can physically see his heart break, his eyes turning glossy, while his mouth is a gap, like he’s stuck between saying something, or letting out a sob. 

“leave me the fuck alone” and this time, you really walk out.

the door slams behind you, echoing through the house as you rush to your car, hands shaking so bad you can barely get the key in. tears blur your vision, falling faster, harder, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you finally start the engine.

“FUCK!” you hear him yell, but you don’t care, you put the car in drive and you don’t look back.

-

you can’t even count how many times you’ve ignored every text, every call. every text that said “im outside,” because he did try to see you, and speak to you. at first is was way too messy, only coming late at night in the form of drunk texts, always a string of texts with unreadable spelling mistakes, saying the same “i’m sorry baby”  “I love you so much”  “please you mean everything to me” and it hurt so much more because all you wanted to do was run back into his arms. 

but then you kept telling yourself no. that him saying sorry enough times wouldn’t undo what he said or how he acted. and it was like he realized it for himself as well, because the messages slowly decreased, and when they did, they were more honest, and less quick and poorly written, like “i know you don’t wanna hear from me, but I’m trying to give you space.”  “i fucked up. i know that.”   “not texting you again after this. just I’m so fucking sorry baby.”

and that was the last you heard from him for a few days, until those days turned into a week, then a week into two, and eventually it became a month and so on. it hurt too, because somehow, for once he finally actually listened, and of all the times he could’ve listened, why’d he choose this time?

-

you almost don’t go.

you stood in front of your mirror for ten minutes, staring at your reflection like you were trying to convince yourself this was just another night. “girl, staring at the mirror isn’t gonna do anything” your best friend says to you. “i don’t know if i wanna go honestly” you reply to her, and it’s partly true. “you just don’t want to run into him, but honestly fuck him, he can’t stop your life” she says, and you immediately know who she’s speaking about.

“no you’re right, and we look hot as fuck anyway” you say with a smile. “hell yeah we do!” she laughs with you. 

the air is warm when you arrive, the feeling of the start of summer. the waves silently crashing into the sane, while everyone is in conversation and the music is playing lightly in the background. you and your best friend grab a drink, saying hello to your other friends. 

you glance around like you’re trying to reassure yourself he’s not here when your eyes drift to the past the bonfire smoke, and there he is. 

rafe cameron, your ex boyfriend. 

standing a little forward down the beach, talking to someone, but not really. he looks different, his eyes are darker, like he’s been in his head, his shoulder relaxed like he doesn’t care anymore. you stare longer than you intended, when his eyes roam around, feeling the heat of behind stared at, when they fall on you. 

it feels like the whole party faded away, like the music just stopped, and the conversations ended. your heart nearly drops to your ass, while you almost forget how to breathe. he doesn’t look away, and neither do you. “shit,” you mutter under your breath. your friend glances at you. “what?”

“um, nothing,” you say quickly like you’re trying to cover it up, but it’s already too late. because he’s already making his way towards you both. his movements are careful, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t disappear, like it’s a fragile moment. your heart is pounding a thousand beats per second, you’re not sure how you haven’t fainted at this point. you force yourself not to leave to hear him out because honestly? you missed his voice. 

“hey,” he says when he finally reaches you. the moment is awkward and filled with nerves from you both. “hi.” you respond.  there’s a pause that stretches a little too long, both of you clearly trying to figure out how to exist in the same space again without everything blowing up.

“you look really good,” he says finally, like he’s just trying to start somewhere normal. you let out a small smile. “so do you.” he shifts his weight slightly, glancing down for half a second before looking back at you. “i wasn’t sure if you’d, talk to me, or if you’d just ignore me.” you raise a brow slightly. “you didn’t exactly give me a reason to run up and say hi.”

“yeah,” he nods, accepting that immediately. “that’s fair.” he pauses before continuing, “i’ve been wanting to talk to you.” your arms cross loosely, more out of grounding yourself than defensiveness. “you’ve took plenty of chances.”

“i know,” he says. “i just figured you didn’t wanna hear it anymore.” you tilt your head slightly, “and now?” he exhales. “now i think even if you don’t wanna hear it, you deserve to.” that softens your sassy exterior a bit.  “okay,” you say slowly. “then talk.” he runs a hand through his hair, like he’s organizing his thoughts in real time. “i meant what i said,” he starts. “about being sorry. not in a ‘i messed up, let’s move on’ kind of way. i mean, i actually get why you left.” your brows pull together slightly. “do you really though?”

“i do,” he nods. “because if you said that shit to me? i would’ve lost it too.” you let out a quiet, almost humorless laugh. “you did lose it.”

“i know,” he says quickly. “that’s what i’m saying. i was already off it and i still said worse.” your gaze hardens slightly. “you didn’t just say something ‘worse,’ rafe. you questioned why i was even with you.”

“i know.”

“you made it sound like i was using you.”

“i know,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “and i’ve been replaying that over and over in my head, wishing i could take it back.”

“well, you can’t,” you say, your voice sharper now.

“i know i can’t,” he says, stepping a little closer, but still not invading your space. “that’s why i’m not standing here asking you to forget it. i just, i needed you to know i didn’t mean it.” you shake your head slightly. “then why even say it?” he doesn’t answer immediately, and it makes you open up a space to truly heal from that comment, because for once, he’s not rushing to defend himself, actually thinking before he speaks. 

“i was so angry,” he says finally. “and i wanted to win the argument.” your jaw tightens, the angry of that night slowly rising. “so you said the one thing you knew would hurt me the most.”

“…yeah.” the honesty knocks the air out of your lungs more than any excuse would’ve. “you don’t even understand how deep that cut, rafe” you say quietly, your voice starting to shake despite your best effort.

“i do,” he says immediately.

“no, you don’t,” you shake your head, stepping back slightly. “because you didn’t have to walk away wondering if the person you loved ever actually respected you. you didn’t have to think about how i thought you just viewed me like all the other girls you dated. how the island looks at me like that. ” his face softens, like the guilt is eating at him, now that he can see and hear how bad he broke you with that small sentence. 

“i’ve never needed anything from you,” you continue, your voice breaking now. “not your money, not your gifts, not any of that. and the fact that you could even think that-”

“i didn’t think that,” he cuts in, more desperate and pleading now. “i don’t think that.”

“but you still said it,” you fire back. “and that means somewhere in your head, you believed that.” he exhales sharply, frustrated, but at himself. “you’re right,” he admits. “it did. for a second. and i grabbed onto it because i knew it would get to you.” you stare at him. “which makes it worse, i know” he adds, quieter now. “because i used it against you knowing it wasn’t true.”

“i’ve been around people like that my whole life,” he continues. “people who do want me for that. and instead of recognizing that you’re not like them, i threw it back in your face. i threw you in that same category just to hurt you.” you don’t even know what to say at this point. “yeah,” you whisper. “you did.”

“and i hate that i did,” he says. “i hate that that’s what you walked away with.” you laugh softly, shaking your head. “you didn’t just hurt my feelings, rafe. you messed with how i see things now.” his brows pull together. “what do you mean?”

“i mean,” you swallow, “now every time someone does something nice for me, i’m wondering if they think i expect it. or if they think i’m taking advantage.” his face falls. “and that’s on me now,” you continue. “because you put that thought there.”

“i’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. “not in a fix it way. just- i’m so fucking sorry i did that to you.” you look at him for a long moment. “and it’s not just that,” you add. “it’s everything. the fighting, the way we talk to each other when we’re mad, the way it always turns into something bigger than it needs to be.”

“i know.”

“i’m exhausted, rafe,” you admit, your voice softer now but heavier. “i don’t wanna keep doing this. i don’t wanna keep loving someone who makes me feel like i’m constantly fighting to be understood.” he nods slowly.

“i hear you,” he says. “i really do.” you tilt your head slightly. “do you? or are you just saying that because you think it’s what i wanna hear?”

“i’m saying it because i do get it,” he replies. “there’s a difference.” you cross your arms again, studying him. “okay. then explain it to me.” he takes a breath.

“i’ve been treating this like, as long as you don’t leave, it’s fine,” he says. “like the relationship is successful just because you’re still here.” your expression shifts slightly. “but that’s not the point,” he continues. “the point is making you wanna stay. and i haven’t been doing that.” you don’t interrupt, because he’s not wrong.

“i’ve been controlling, i haven’t listened, i’ve pushed you, pulled you back, pushed you again, and just assumed you’d always come back.”

“and when you didn’t,” he adds, quieter now, “that’s when it finally hit me.” the silence settles between you, and your heart hurts, because you’re realizing you weren’t the only one suffering these past few weeks. “i didn’t get over you,” you admit after a moment.

his eyes flicker a look of relief, like he was hoping you’d give him an indication, just a smidge of leeway back into your life. “i just stopped letting myself go back,” you continue. “because i knew if i did, nothing would change.”

“fair,” he says, but it’s not casual this time. his voice is lower, rougher around the edges, like he’s choosing his words instead of just throwing them at you.

“and i can’t do the old version of us again,” you tell him, holding your ground. “i won’t, rafe.”

he nods slowly, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours. you hesitate slightly at that. “then we don’t,” he adds, a little more firmly now. you let out a small breath, shaking your head. “it’s not that simple, and you know it’s not.”

“i do,” he says, stepping a little closer, but not too close, not pushing. “i know it’s not simple. i just, i know it’s that clear.” your brows pull together, studying him like you’re trying to catch the part where he slips back into old habits.

“you’re not gonna rush me?” you ask. he huffs a quiet breath, almost like the idea annoys him but not at you, at himself. “no. i’m not doing that again. i pushed you enough.”

“and you’re not gonna try to pull me back in the second i let my guard down?” his gaze flickers, something honest passing through it. “i’ve wanted to every day since you left,” he admits, voice dropping. “but no, i’m not gonna do that either.”

that makes you take a second, .

“you’re actually gonna listen to me?” he lets out a small, humorless laugh, running a hand over his jaw. “i should’ve been doing that the whole time,” he says. then softer, more serious, “ but yeah, course i am.” he says with that stupid smirk now. “and if it starts feeling like it used to?” you ask quietly.

he doesn’t answer right away, smirk fading, as he really deeply thinks about the answer. then he nods once, like he’s settling into something. “then you walk,” he says. “and i don’t chase you, or try to talk you out of it.” his jaw tightens slightly. “…even if it kills me.” you internally frown at that. “that’s not what you used to do.”

“i know,” he says immediately. “that’s the problem.” silence falls between you, heavier now but real. “i still care about you,” you admit, your voice quieter now. his head dips slightly, exhaling like that hits deeper than anything. “I was hoping you still would” he said with relief.

“and that’s what makes this hard.” he nods, eyes not leaving you. “same. i wouldn’t be standing here right now if it wasn’t.” you look away for a second, collecting yourself, then back at him. “this doesn’t just go back to normal,” you say. “there’s no jumping right back into whatever we were.”

“i don’t want that,” he says quickly. you blink, confused. “you don’t?” he shakes his head, stepping closer again, carefully. “no. because whatever we were? that’s what screwed it up in the first place.” his voice lowers. “i don’t want half of you. i don’t want the ‘when it’s convenient’ version.”

“so what do you want?” you ask. He steps into you space now, still not touching you, but he doesn’t hesitate with his words, like he’s so sure of it,  “i want a real shot,” he says, eyes steady on yours. “i want to do it right. no games. i want you, and i want it in a way that doesn’t end like this again.” your heart flutters. 

“and if it doesn’t work?” you ask, softer now.

“that’s not an option in my mind. It will work, because I want you more than anything.” he says so softly you barely know if you even heard it, and his words linger in your mind. the waves crash behind you, filling the silence you don’t know how to break, making you remember, you’re at a bonfire with actual people near you. 

you glance around, looking for your best friend. Her eyes are already on yours, looking for any indication that you need help, need her to rip rafe a new one, but you give her a nod that says “i’m good” and she takes it, taking a sip of her drink while looking back at the guy she’s speaking to. 

“you can try,” you say finally, glancing back at rafe. his eyes only waiting for an answer.  “yeah?” he asks quietly, like he doesn’t want to push it. “yeah,” you nod. “but slow. and if i feel like i’m losing myself in this again, i’m done. for real this time.”

“you won’t,” he says so surely. you give him a look. “you don’t know that.”

he reaches out to place his hand on yours, hesitating for a second, like he’s asking for permission, grabbing it with a small squeeze, reassuring you. “ i’ll make sure you don’t,” he corrects, “i’ll fix it before it gets there.” 

you feel a warmth creep up your arm at the contact, and you have to stop yourself for melting into it, but you body reacts before your brain can even process what you’re doing. your hand comes up first, fingers curling lightly into the front of his shirt, pulling him just a little closer.

his restraint snaps as instantly as yours, his hand slides to your waist, the other to your jaw, and when he leans down to kiss you, it’s everything you’ve both been holding back for weeks. weeks of missing each other, of him stopping himself from just showing up to your door, weeks of you having to force yourself to not think about him.

his grip tightens just slightly, pulling you closer like he’s making sure you’re real, like you’re not about to disappear on him again. when he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch, his forehead resting against yours, breath uneven.

Choking — with choking it goes both ways: one minute he's holding you down and pounding you into the mattress and the next you're flipping him onto his back and grabbing him by the throat. Especially on the days where he's extra needy and needs you to take control, he loves to have your hands cutting off his air supply, broken whines and moans slipping out from between his lips when he manages to gasp in enough oxygen, his cock twitching and leaking like a faucet from how turned on he is. But the next time you fuck it could be the complete opposite, he'll be slamming you up against the wall, one hand squeezing your neck tightly while he fucks into you like an animal, all wild and sloppy, but still so good. That air of unpredictability is one of the reasons you keep going back for more, you never know what it's going to be that day, and sometimes it's a struggle for power.

Cum play — Rafe's brain goes completely blank when he sees his cum on your body, whether it's painting your tits or face, on your lips and slipping out the corner of your mouth with what you didn't manage to swallow, or dripping out of your pussy and running down your thighs. To him it's a sign of ownership, of possession, he's marking what's his and his alone, and he loves smearing it around on your skin, spreading it as much as he can. He definitely has hundreds of pictures on his phone of you with his cum on your body, some with you on your knees looking up at him, others where you're boneless and half asleep on the bed. One of his favourite things in the world is coming inside of you, filling you up and pumping you full. The second he pulls out, however, he's between your legs, tongue delving inside of your puffy entrance, licking and slurping his cum right back out of you, the potent flavour of both you and him mixed together enough to make him almost cum again.

SEASON TWO

Edging — He doesn't really ask for things, he mostly just does and takes what he wants, and that's how he operates with you as well. He doesn't care if your voice goes hoarse from begging and sobbing, he'll still keep you on the edge for as long as he likes. Now, he's not at total monster, and he does care about you, so he lets you come, most of the time. Just when it feels like he's never going to let you, he'll kiss you and tell you how good you were and the next thing you know he's brutally fucking you until you lose track of how many times you've cum around him. His favourite way to edge you is by eating you out or fingering you, a lot of the time it's both at the same time. He loves how wet you get for him, and he's slightly feral about the way you taste, so he's in absolute heaven between your thighs and he does it for his pleasure as much as yours. He'll suck on your clit for hours while pumping his fingers in and out of you, curling them just right, so they rub your G-spot expertly with each thrust until you're right on the edge, pulling his mouth and fingers away just when you're about to tip over the edge for the nth time. He'll make you scream and cry and beg, pretending to listen before he does it again and again and again until you're nothing but a trembling mess beneath him, your mind blank of anything but his name.

Impact play — especially pussy slapping. He'll do it as a reward, as a punishment, or just for fun; one of his favourite things in the world is you when you're crying and begging him to stop, his hand coming down again and again and again. When he's done — which won't be for a while — he likes to make you come as many times as he can as a reward for taking it so well, your poor cunt sore, swollen and stinging after his rough abuse. He loves fucking you doggy style just so he can smack your ass as he pounds into you, the way your body instinctively jolts and tries to squirm away something he'll never get tired of. Honestly, he really just loves smacking you, it doesn't really matter where. If you're face to face, especially in missionary, he's smacking you around the face until your crying, your tears burning as they trace a path down your stinging cheeks. Your tits aren't neglected either, his favourite position for slapping them is when you're riding him, the way they bounce just too irresistible, an opportunity he'd never pass up on.

Dirty talk — he's got the filthiest mouth of anyone you've ever met — and you love it. He's always whispering nasty shit in your ear, whether it's when you're out in public just to see you squirm and squeeze your thighs together, or when you're at home and he's inside you, telling you every single thing he's going to do to you in excruciating detail. "Look at these tits, hmm? Practically spilling outta this fuckin' top, can't wait to get my mouth on 'em later, I'm gonna suck 'em until you scream," he'd say while you were out, arms wrapped around your waist and his chin hooked over your shoulder just so he could hear the way your breath hitched and the barely audible whimper that escaped you. "Bet you're soakin' those cute little panties already, always get so wet f'me."

SEASON THREE

Lingerie — he's always been a big fan of it, but when he gets with you, the most gorgeous girl he's ever seen in his life, his obsession with it skyrockets. Now he's imagining you in it all the time, satin pieces on your smooth skin, little lacy things that make him want to worship you like the goddess you are. He doesn't want you to think he's a total creep, he has no idea if you'd even be into it at all, so at first he keeps it a secret. He starts off small, buying you lacy panties or a small satin slip, nothing too dramatic or elaborate, giving them to you with the promise that you don't have to wear it if you don't want to, he can send it back and it's not problem. But he notices the way you look at yourself when you try them on, the way you wear the things he buys more and more, your face lighting up when he adds something new to your ever growing collection. And his favourite thing, of course, is fucking you in your new set, a tradition at this point. He'll push the slip up to your waist or pull the panties to the side and bottom out in one long thrust, his hands pinching and rolling your nipples through the flimsy material of the bralette and letting out guttural moans at how beautiful you are.

Biting/marking — he's very, very possessive and he likes to make sure that everyone knows you're completely off limits. By the time he's done, it looks like you've been mauled by a wild animal, hickeys littering your neck and chest; large, bruising bite marks on display for everyone to see. Whenever you try to cover them up, he's snatching the concealer away and giving you a whole bunch of new ones to punish you for even trying to hide his masterpiece. He likes it when you mark him too, little things that show that he's yours as much as you are his. Scratching is his favourite, he likes the looks he gets when he shirtless at the beach, bright red lines scraped down his arms and back, marks of your possession that he proudly displays for everyone to see.

Blindfolds — like with biting and marking, he's very possessive, but with blindfolds it's in a different type of way. It turns him on when you trust him enough to give up all of your control like that, especially if you let him tie you up too, and he feels like you're completely and utterly his. You're at his mercy, he could do whatever he wanted, and you trust him with that. Now he's more grown up though, he wouldn't do things without making sure you're comfortable with them, and the knowledge that's it's not because you have to but because you want to with him, turns him on more than anything.

SEASON FOUR

Breeding kink — He's more grown up now, mature, finally a man instead of a boy, and with that, he's starting to think about the future and starting a family. This one he's definitely a little more scared to bring up to you, and he definitely has a huge fear of rejection now that he's got something so good in his life. But when he sees you he sees a future, not just a casual thing, someone he wants more and more with. Even if neither of you are ready to be parents just yet, the fantasy is good enough for him for now. Pumping you full of his cum, immediately pulling out and stuffing three fingers back into you, pushing it all back in and murmuring about how he needs to "make sure it stays, baby, need t'make you a mama," in between slow, filthy kisses that have you clenching around his fingers.

Cockwarming — he likes to be as close to you as possible all the time, and there's nothing closer than being inside of you, so naturally, he likes to do it as much as possible. A lot of the time it'll be while he's working, his thick, hard length filling you up while you straddle his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck and your head resting on his shoulder, completely relaxed. He'll have his chin hooked over your shoulder so he can see what he's doing, and he'll stay like that for hours. You do get bored very quickly, and it's not long before your squirming and shifting on top of him, your clit throbbing painfully as your walls flutter around his girthy cock. He never lets you move though, not until he's completely done. Occasional he'll give you one hard thrust, his cock rubbing perfectly against your G-spot, both making you want more and settling you for another little while. He loves just being able to hold you, to have you near, no obligations, just feeling each other without any other motives, your warmth spreading through him and letting him know that it's real, and he's got you.

Choking — with choking it goes both ways: one minute he's holding you down and pounding you into the mattress and the next you're flipping him onto his back and grabbing him by the throat. Especially on the days where he's extra needy and needs you to take control, he loves to have your hands cutting off his air supply, broken whines and moans slipping out from between his lips when he manages to gasp in enough oxygen, his cock twitching and leaking like a faucet from how turned on he is. But the next time you fuck it could be the complete opposite, he'll be slamming you up against the wall, one hand squeezing your neck tightly while he fucks into you like an animal, all wild and sloppy, but still so good. That air of unpredictability is one of the reasons you keep going back for more, you never know what it's going to be that day, and sometimes it's a struggle for power.

Cum play — Rafe's brain goes completely blank when he sees his cum on your body, whether it's painting your tits or face, on your lips and slipping out the corner of your mouth with what you didn't manage to swallow, or dripping out of your pussy and running down your thighs. To him it's a sign of ownership, of possession, he's marking what's his and his alone, and he loves smearing it around on your skin, spreading it as much as he can. He definitely has hundreds of pictures on his phone of you with his cum on your body, some with you on your knees looking up at him, others where you're boneless and half asleep on the bed. One of his favourite things in the world is coming inside of you, filling you up and pumping you full. The second he pulls out, however, he's between your legs, tongue delving inside of your puffy entrance, licking and slurping his cum right back out of you, the potent flavour of both you and him mixed together enough to make him almost cum again.

SEASON TWO

Edging — He doesn't really ask for things, he mostly just does and takes what he wants, and that's how he operates with you as well. He doesn't care if your voice goes hoarse from begging and sobbing, he'll still keep you on the edge for as long as he likes. Now, he's not at total monster, and he does care about you, so he lets you come, most of the time. Just when it feels like he's never going to let you, he'll kiss you and tell you how good you were and the next thing you know he's brutally fucking you until you lose track of how many times you've cum around him. His favourite way to edge you is by eating you out or fingering you, a lot of the time it's both at the same time. He loves how wet you get for him, and he's slightly feral about the way you taste, so he's in absolute heaven between your thighs and he does it for his pleasure as much as yours. He'll suck on your clit for hours while pumping his fingers in and out of you, curling them just right, so they rub your G-spot expertly with each thrust until you're right on the edge, pulling his mouth and fingers away just when you're about to tip over the edge for the nth time. He'll make you scream and cry and beg, pretending to listen before he does it again and again and again until you're nothing but a trembling mess beneath him, your mind blank of anything but his name.

Impact play — especially pussy slapping. He'll do it as a reward, as a punishment, or just for fun; one of his favourite things in the world is you when you're crying and begging him to stop, his hand coming down again and again and again. When he's done — which won't be for a while — he likes to make you come as many times as he can as a reward for taking it so well, your poor cunt sore, swollen and stinging after his rough abuse. He loves fucking you doggy style just so he can smack your ass as he pounds into you, the way your body instinctively jolts and tries to squirm away something he'll never get tired of. Honestly, he really just loves smacking you, it doesn't really matter where. If you're face to face, especially in missionary, he's smacking you around the face until your crying, your tears burning as they trace a path down your stinging cheeks. Your tits aren't neglected either, his favourite position for slapping them is when you're riding him, the way they bounce just too irresistible, an opportunity he'd never pass up on.

Dirty talk — he's got the filthiest mouth of anyone you've ever met — and you love it. He's always whispering nasty shit in your ear, whether it's when you're out in public just to see you squirm and squeeze your thighs together, or when you're at home and he's inside you, telling you every single thing he's going to do to you in excruciating detail. "Look at these tits, hmm? Practically spilling outta this fuckin' top, can't wait to get my mouth on 'em later, I'm gonna suck 'em until you scream," he'd say while you were out, arms wrapped around your waist and his chin hooked over your shoulder just so he could hear the way your breath hitched and the barely audible whimper that escaped you. "Bet you're soakin' those cute little panties already, always get so wet f'me."

SEASON THREE

Lingerie — he's always been a big fan of it, but when he gets with you, the most gorgeous girl he's ever seen in his life, his obsession with it skyrockets. Now he's imagining you in it all the time, satin pieces on your smooth skin, little lacy things that make him want to worship you like the goddess you are. He doesn't want you to think he's a total creep, he has no idea if you'd even be into it at all, so at first he keeps it a secret. He starts off small, buying you lacy panties or a small satin slip, nothing too dramatic or elaborate, giving them to you with the promise that you don't have to wear it if you don't want to, he can send it back and it's not problem. But he notices the way you look at yourself when you try them on, the way you wear the things he buys more and more, your face lighting up when he adds something new to your ever growing collection. And his favourite thing, of course, is fucking you in your new set, a tradition at this point. He'll push the slip up to your waist or pull the panties to the side and bottom out in one long thrust, his hands pinching and rolling your nipples through the flimsy material of the bralette and letting out guttural moans at how beautiful you are.

Biting/marking — he's very, very possessive and he likes to make sure that everyone knows you're completely off limits. By the time he's done, it looks like you've been mauled by a wild animal, hickeys littering your neck and chest; large, bruising bite marks on display for everyone to see. Whenever you try to cover them up, he's snatching the concealer away and giving you a whole bunch of new ones to punish you for even trying to hide his masterpiece. He likes it when you mark him too, little things that show that he's yours as much as you are his. Scratching is his favourite, he likes the looks he gets when he shirtless at the beach, bright red lines scraped down his arms and back, marks of your possession that he proudly displays for everyone to see.

Blindfolds — like with biting and marking, he's very possessive, but with blindfolds it's in a different type of way. It turns him on when you trust him enough to give up all of your control like that, especially if you let him tie you up too, and he feels like you're completely and utterly his. You're at his mercy, he could do whatever he wanted, and you trust him with that. Now he's more grown up though, he wouldn't do things without making sure you're comfortable with them, and the knowledge that's it's not because you have to but because you want to with him, turns him on more than anything.

SEASON FOUR

Breeding kink — He's more grown up now, mature, finally a man instead of a boy, and with that, he's starting to think about the future and starting a family. This one he's definitely a little more scared to bring up to you, and he definitely has a huge fear of rejection now that he's got something so good in his life. But when he sees you he sees a future, not just a casual thing, someone he wants more and more with. Even if neither of you are ready to be parents just yet, the fantasy is good enough for him for now. Pumping you full of his cum, immediately pulling out and stuffing three fingers back into you, pushing it all back in and murmuring about how he needs to "make sure it stays, baby, need t'make you a mama," in between slow, filthy kisses that have you clenching around his fingers.

Cockwarming — he likes to be as close to you as possible all the time, and there's nothing closer than being inside of you, so naturally, he likes to do it as much as possible. A lot of the time it'll be while he's working, his thick, hard length filling you up while you straddle his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck and your head resting on his shoulder, completely relaxed. He'll have his chin hooked over your shoulder so he can see what he's doing, and he'll stay like that for hours. You do get bored very quickly, and it's not long before your squirming and shifting on top of him, your clit throbbing painfully as your walls flutter around his girthy cock. He never lets you move though, not until he's completely done. Occasional he'll give you one hard thrust, his cock rubbing perfectly against your G-spot, both making you want more and settling you for another little while. He loves just being able to hold you, to have you near, no obligations, just feeling each other without any other motives, your warmth spreading through him and letting him know that it's real, and he's got you.

It was almost that time of the month again. That much was obvious. Your face looked a little puffy, you craved sweets more than usual, and physical touch anywhere near your chest had turned into a sensitive nightmare.

And while he loved how juicy your boobs got thanks to rising estrogen levels—yes, he’d looked that up after getting curious about the sudden size increase—he hated that they caused you pain.

So instead of telling you how badly he wanted to bury his face between them, he dropped his phone beside him and shifted his full attention to you. “They’re sore again, hm, baby?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, grimacing at the dull ache. “Feels like some gorilla used them as a punching bag.”

Rafe let out a low chuckle before standing up. “Mh. That sucks.”

Was he for real?

“Excuse me? I need cuddles and a back massage,” you said in mock-offense, sitting upright and watching him head for the stairs. “What kind of boyfriend—“

Your sentence cut off with a gasp when he disappeared out of earshot.

Wow. Okay.

“I’ll tell Kelce to beat your ass in the next boxing session!”, you yelled after him as you slumped back against the couch, wincing at the way your boobs strained your shoulders.

The phase before your period was just… eugh. Your tits swelled up a whole cup size, even the slightest touch sent a low electric buzz through your nerves, and the back pain only got worse.

Let’s not forget all the other symptoms the luteal phase caused to your mind and body.

Being big-chested was great when Rafe obsessed over them, when he showed you exactly how much they drove him insane, or when a top or dress made the whole outfit pop thanks to your cleavage. But the rest of the time?

A heavy burden.

It felt like carrying two water-filled buckets tied together with a rope slung over your shoulders. And during your period, or ovulation, they were basically just two swollen balls of sore flesh.

Normally, Rafe thrived in his role as the caring boyfriend, happily—at least acting like it—listening to your complaints. Apparently, today he’d reached his limit.

Fine. Guess whose little guy wouldn’t be getting any attention for the next two months. Oh, and those titjobs he loved so much? Not even for the next—

“What was my baby yelling about?”

Rafe’s voice came from behind you, low and challenging. He leaned forward, his warm breath ghosting over your shoulder. “You think I need my ass beat, huh?”

His teasing tone—the kind where he knew he was being a little shit—sent a flutter straight to your stomach.

But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. Nope, you pretended to watch the trashy TV show streaming in front of you he had put on earlier.

“Depends,” you said coolly.

You felt his chest rumble behind you as he let out a low chuckle. "On what?" He nudged your neck with his nose, earning a startled giggle, before pressing a warm kiss to your skin. “The amount of kisses I’m gonna drown you in once I’m done taking care of you.”

A soft wooden rattle above you made you glance up.

Suspiciously, you eyed the red rectangle hanging overhead. “This isn’t a DIY surgery kit for a temporary chest reduction, is it?”

“Nah.” Rafe snorted. “Way better.” He dropped the wooden box onto the couch beside you. “DIY gonna-care-the-shit-out-of-my-girl kit. Special edition.”

Immediate warmth spread through your body as you spotted the neatly arranged items inside the box: a heating pad, candles in your favorite scent, sweets you loved, a small glass bottle that appeared to be massage oil, a steaming towel, fluffy socks, and a relief bra with large cups and wide straps.

Alright, alright. Sexy time negotiations officially back on the table.

"That's..." You shook your head, unable to form words as you watched him round the couch with big, loving eyes. "When did you even get this?"

Rafe shrugged, dropping down beside you. A self-satisfied grin played on his lips as he fished out the candles to light them on the coffee table. "When I googled 'Girl with massive milkers complains about soreness. Please help.'"

You let out a startled laugh, soaking up the warmth that crept onto your cheeks. "For the record—if that went over your head by any chance—I'm not producing milk."

"Yet," he corrected you with a cheeky smile.

Next, he grabbed your calves and lifted your legs onto his lap, slipping the fluffy socks over your existing ones with practiced ease.

He gave your toes a gentle squeeze. “Feet hurting too?”

"No," you said with a smile, already bracing yourself to kick his face in case he dared to tickle you. "Just my boobs and back right now."

Rafe nodded. Gently, he removed your legs and gestured to your chest, his face all business. "Remove your top."

"Oh?" You raised a brow, amused.

His expression didn't waver, a soft authority creeping into his tone. "You heard me. Top off and lay down on my lap."

Something about the effortless way he took charge melted you completely.

When you winced trying to pull the fabric over your head, Rafe immediately leaned in, gently taking your hands.

“Let me.”

With careful urgency, he helped you out of your top, setting it aside. For a moment, his eyes fell onto your exposed breasts, a flicker of heat crossing his features as he took in the roundness and size of them, before he schooled his gaze and patted his lap.

"C'mere, baby," he said, his voice soft despite the way his jaw worked.

You chuckled, making his eyes snap up to yours. "You're worse than a cat in heat."

"You won't hear me apologizing." He helped you settle down, placing a pillow beneath your neck, so your head rested comfortably on his thighs. "I'm appreciating what god has gifted me."

"Uh-huh. And he gifted me a horny, cocky boyfriend, it seems."

Rafe let out an amused scoff. You felt the muscles of his thighs move as he shifted his torso to the side to reach for the massage oil.

The smell of rosemary filled the air as he popped the bottle open. "'Oh my god, thank you, Rafe, for taking care of me and appreciating my perfect tits'." He shook his head casually, making a dismissive move with his free hand. "No problem, baby. Everything for you."

You stared at him flatly, watching him pour a few drops of oil onto his palm. "Maybe you should start seeing your therapist again."

"Quiet now, woman," he said, a playful frown on his face. Then he rubbed his hands together and carefully placed his knuckles on the sensitive side of your breasts. "That warm enough?"

You nodded, lips pressed together to suppress a smile.

"Good." With the gentlest motion, he began applying the oil to the curve of your chest. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?"

"Yeah." You closed your eyes, exhaling heavily to release the stress of the day. "Why rosemary?"

"It's an antioxidant," he murmured, hands moving in gentle circles. "Meaning it's anti-inflammatory and helps with lymphatic circulation within the breast. This one's specifically made for that kind of pain."

A soft gasp slipped from your lips.

He froze instantly. “Too much?”

"No," your eyes fluttered open, a little dazed from how good the massage felt. "It's... relieving."

Only then did he relax, continuing the massage, easing tension from your shoulders before returning to your chest—careful, attentive, avoiding the sensitive centers.

“Y’know that’s extremely hot,” you said with a soft chuckle, watching him focus on his task with the seriousness of someone performing actual surgery.

“Yeah?” A cheeky smirk tugged at his lips, softening his features. “You like it when I take care of you, baby?”

Another relieved gasp left your lips as he finally attended the center of your boobs, applying the oil with such deliberate caress, brushing with his thumbs over your highly sensitive nipples.

“That too,” you admitted, trying to suppress a moan at how well his fingers worked out the tension. His eyes lifted to meet yours—the golden hour light turning the blue into something almost turquoise. “But I meant the research part. You know. Reading scientific articles and stuff.”

You hesitated for half a second, warmth blooming in your cheeks, before continuing, “A man trying to expand his knowledge for his girl is just…” You shrugged lightly. “It’s very attractive. Especially when he can actually explain it, and put it to use.”

Oh. Great.

The way his expression grew more smug by the second told you exactly how often this was going to come up over the next few months.

Rafe let out a deep, satisfied chuckle, his chest rumbling beside you. “Well, in that case…”

He reached into the box, pulling out the warm, steaming towel and carefully tucked it beneath your breasts, adjusting it with almost reverent attention.

“After I’m done here,” he continued, one warm hand sliding beneath your neck, his voice dropping just slightly, “I’ll show you I don’t always need research to know exactly what you need.”

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

if your name is listed here, it's because you chose this genre on my taglist form. if you want to be removed, just fill out the form again.

It was almost that time of the month again. That much was obvious. Your face looked a little puffy, you craved sweets more than usual, and physical touch anywhere near your chest had turned into a sensitive nightmare.

And while he loved how juicy your boobs got thanks to rising estrogen levels—yes, he’d looked that up after getting curious about the sudden size increase—he hated that they caused you pain.

So instead of telling you how badly he wanted to bury his face between them, he dropped his phone beside him and shifted his full attention to you. “They’re sore again, hm, baby?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, grimacing at the dull ache. “Feels like some gorilla used them as a punching bag.”

Rafe let out a low chuckle before standing up. “Mh. That sucks.”

Was he for real?

“Excuse me? I need cuddles and a back massage,” you said in mock-offense, sitting upright and watching him head for the stairs. “What kind of boyfriend—“

Your sentence cut off with a gasp when he disappeared out of earshot.

Wow. Okay.

“I’ll tell Kelce to beat your ass in the next boxing session!”, you yelled after him as you slumped back against the couch, wincing at the way your boobs strained your shoulders.

The phase before your period was just… eugh. Your tits swelled up a whole cup size, even the slightest touch sent a low electric buzz through your nerves, and the back pain only got worse.

Let’s not forget all the other symptoms the luteal phase caused to your mind and body.

Being big-chested was great when Rafe obsessed over them, when he showed you exactly how much they drove him insane, or when a top or dress made the whole outfit pop thanks to your cleavage. But the rest of the time?

A heavy burden.

It felt like carrying two water-filled buckets tied together with a rope slung over your shoulders. And during your period, or ovulation, they were basically just two swollen balls of sore flesh.

Normally, Rafe thrived in his role as the caring boyfriend, happily—at least acting like it—listening to your complaints. Apparently, today he’d reached his limit.

Fine. Guess whose little guy wouldn’t be getting any attention for the next two months. Oh, and those titjobs he loved so much? Not even for the next—

“What was my baby yelling about?”

Rafe’s voice came from behind you, low and challenging. He leaned forward, his warm breath ghosting over your shoulder. “You think I need my ass beat, huh?”

His teasing tone—the kind where he knew he was being a little shit—sent a flutter straight to your stomach.

But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. Nope, you pretended to watch the trashy TV show streaming in front of you he had put on earlier.

“Depends,” you said coolly.

You felt his chest rumble behind you as he let out a low chuckle. "On what?" He nudged your neck with his nose, earning a startled giggle, before pressing a warm kiss to your skin. “The amount of kisses I’m gonna drown you in once I’m done taking care of you.”

A soft wooden rattle above you made you glance up.

Suspiciously, you eyed the red rectangle hanging overhead. “This isn’t a DIY surgery kit for a temporary chest reduction, is it?”

“Nah.” Rafe snorted. “Way better.” He dropped the wooden box onto the couch beside you. “DIY gonna-care-the-shit-out-of-my-girl kit. Special edition.”

Immediate warmth spread through your body as you spotted the neatly arranged items inside the box: a heating pad, candles in your favorite scent, sweets you loved, a small glass bottle that appeared to be massage oil, a steaming towel, fluffy socks, and a relief bra with large cups and wide straps.

Alright, alright. Sexy time negotiations officially back on the table.

"That's..." You shook your head, unable to form words as you watched him round the couch with big, loving eyes. "When did you even get this?"

Rafe shrugged, dropping down beside you. A self-satisfied grin played on his lips as he fished out the candles to light them on the coffee table. "When I googled 'Girl with massive milkers complains about soreness. Please help.'"

You let out a startled laugh, soaking up the warmth that crept onto your cheeks. "For the record—if that went over your head by any chance—I'm not producing milk."

"Yet," he corrected you with a cheeky smile.

Next, he grabbed your calves and lifted your legs onto his lap, slipping the fluffy socks over your existing ones with practiced ease.

He gave your toes a gentle squeeze. “Feet hurting too?”

"No," you said with a smile, already bracing yourself to kick his face in case he dared to tickle you. "Just my boobs and back right now."

Rafe nodded. Gently, he removed your legs and gestured to your chest, his face all business. "Remove your top."

"Oh?" You raised a brow, amused.

His expression didn't waver, a soft authority creeping into his tone. "You heard me. Top off and lay down on my lap."

Something about the effortless way he took charge melted you completely.

When you winced trying to pull the fabric over your head, Rafe immediately leaned in, gently taking your hands.

“Let me.”

With careful urgency, he helped you out of your top, setting it aside. For a moment, his eyes fell onto your exposed breasts, a flicker of heat crossing his features as he took in the roundness and size of them, before he schooled his gaze and patted his lap.

"C'mere, baby," he said, his voice soft despite the way his jaw worked.

You chuckled, making his eyes snap up to yours. "You're worse than a cat in heat."

"You won't hear me apologizing." He helped you settle down, placing a pillow beneath your neck, so your head rested comfortably on his thighs. "I'm appreciating what god has gifted me."

"Uh-huh. And he gifted me a horny, cocky boyfriend, it seems."

Rafe let out an amused scoff. You felt the muscles of his thighs move as he shifted his torso to the side to reach for the massage oil.

The smell of rosemary filled the air as he popped the bottle open. "'Oh my god, thank you, Rafe, for taking care of me and appreciating my perfect tits'." He shook his head casually, making a dismissive move with his free hand. "No problem, baby. Everything for you."

You stared at him flatly, watching him pour a few drops of oil onto his palm. "Maybe you should start seeing your therapist again."

"Quiet now, woman," he said, a playful frown on his face. Then he rubbed his hands together and carefully placed his knuckles on the sensitive side of your breasts. "That warm enough?"

You nodded, lips pressed together to suppress a smile.

"Good." With the gentlest motion, he began applying the oil to the curve of your chest. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?"

"Yeah." You closed your eyes, exhaling heavily to release the stress of the day. "Why rosemary?"

"It's an antioxidant," he murmured, hands moving in gentle circles. "Meaning it's anti-inflammatory and helps with lymphatic circulation within the breast. This one's specifically made for that kind of pain."

A soft gasp slipped from your lips.

He froze instantly. “Too much?”

"No," your eyes fluttered open, a little dazed from how good the massage felt. "It's... relieving."

Only then did he relax, continuing the massage, easing tension from your shoulders before returning to your chest—careful, attentive, avoiding the sensitive centers.

“Y’know that’s extremely hot,” you said with a soft chuckle, watching him focus on his task with the seriousness of someone performing actual surgery.

“Yeah?” A cheeky smirk tugged at his lips, softening his features. “You like it when I take care of you, baby?”

Another relieved gasp left your lips as he finally attended the center of your boobs, applying the oil with such deliberate caress, brushing with his thumbs over your highly sensitive nipples.

“That too,” you admitted, trying to suppress a moan at how well his fingers worked out the tension. His eyes lifted to meet yours—the golden hour light turning the blue into something almost turquoise. “But I meant the research part. You know. Reading scientific articles and stuff.”

You hesitated for half a second, warmth blooming in your cheeks, before continuing, “A man trying to expand his knowledge for his girl is just…” You shrugged lightly. “It’s very attractive. Especially when he can actually explain it, and put it to use.”

Oh. Great.

The way his expression grew more smug by the second told you exactly how often this was going to come up over the next few months.

Rafe let out a deep, satisfied chuckle, his chest rumbling beside you. “Well, in that case…”

He reached into the box, pulling out the warm, steaming towel and carefully tucked it beneath your breasts, adjusting it with almost reverent attention.

“After I’m done here,” he continued, one warm hand sliding beneath your neck, his voice dropping just slightly, “I’ll show you I don’t always need research to know exactly what you need.”

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

if your name is listed here, it's because you chose this genre on my taglist form. if you want to be removed, just fill out the form again.