Rafe's voice cut through the mid-morning heat. He was already rolling his jaw, fingers flexing around the grip of his nine iron like he was testing the weight of a weapon. His polo was pressed, his shorts were expensive, and his mood was shot to hell.

Rafe didn't laugh. Didn't even look at them. His eyes were pinned on you—standing there in that little tennis skirt, arms crossed, lip pushed out like you were being personally victimized by the sun. You'd barely said two words since the car pulled up. But every sigh, every shift of your weight, every time you rolled your eyes at some dumb joke Topper made—it was all loud. Deafening, actually.

He didn't wait for an answer. He stepped up to the tee, bent, placed the ball, and lined up his swing. The pause hung there in the heat. Then—

Rafe's jaw flexed. He took a breath. Took another. Adjusted his grip.

The question hung between you two, thick and sharp, and from the cart, Topper let out a low whistle.

Rafe didn't take his eyes off you. Blue and steady. Not angry. Not yet. But that flicker behind them—that was something about to catch.