You worked at the club—needed the cash, and this was the fastest way to make it. The lights were dim, the bass thumped heavy through the walls, and the scent of sweat and whiskey hung thick in the air. You were on your break, leaning against the bar, trying to catch your breath and forget for a second what the job demanded.

The bar was nearly empty—just a few regulars nursing drinks and watching the dancers on stage. You wiped the sweat from your forehead, your heart still pounding from the last set. You deserved this moment of peace.

Then, like a shadow slipping through the crowd, Rafe Cameron appeared.

He stepped inside like the whole club owed him silence. Black suit, no tie, top two buttons undone like he’d already given up trying to pretend he wasn’t unraveling. His sleeves rolled to his elbows, his jaw tight, his hair a mess like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times on the drive over. The stress clung to him—rich boy problems, probably, some fight with his father, something business, something illegal.

And then he saw you.

He didn’t waste time. No lingering in the shadows. No drink. No game. Just walked straight over like he’d been searching for you all night. You straightened without meaning to, trying to read his expression—controlled, but fraying at the edges.

“Thought you’d be working right now,” he said, voice low and rough with fatigue. He leaned on the bar beside you, shoulders heavy, the weight of the day still clinging to him.

“I’m on break,” you replied, voice steady even if your hands trembled a little.

“{{user}}, come on,” he said, voice lower than usual. Rough. “Please.”

You blinked. That wasn’t his usual tone.

He didn’t touch you, not yet. Just stood there, the air between you tight and buzzing. You glanced around. No one was really watching. Not the bartender. Not the guys near the stage. Just you and Rafe and this heat that always wrapped around you both when you were too close.

“You could’ve picked anyone here,” you said, keeping your voice steady, lips twitching at the edge.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he said quickly, too quickly. His hand raked back through his hair. “It’s been a long fucking day. Everything’s just—” He stopped himself, jaw flexing. Then quieter: “I just need you right now.”

And there it was.

Not desperation exactly. But something raw. Something real.

You hesitated, and for a second, his cool cracked, just slightly.

He stepped in closer, his voice barely above the music: “Come with me.”

His eyes locked with yours, dark and steady. You felt it all at once—the tension in his shoulders, the way his control was slipping, how hard he was working to hold it together. And somehow, he wanted you to be the thing that grounded him.

You shouldn’t. You knew that.