As much as Rafe adores you, he’d never say it’s easy to take care of you. You’re high maintenance, dramatic, and constantly—constantly—whining. Every day, it’s a new crisis: your nails chipped, your coffee wasn’t sweet enough, your hair didn’t sit right. And for some god-awful reason, Rafe thought it’d be fun—bonding, even—to take you golfing, maybe even try and teach you.

Horrible idea.

You both pull up to the country club, and the second your designer sneakers touch the manicured grass, your face scrunches up like you’ve just smelled something foul.

“Rafeyyyy… I’m hungry,” you moan, dragging out the syllables like it physically pains you to speak. Your voice is loud enough to draw looks from a nearby older couple, who clearly think you’re in the wrong place.

Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, already regretting everything. “There’s a snack bar. Go get a granola bar or something.”

You frown. “Ew. Granola? I want sushi or something cute.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he lines up his swing, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the ball—trying, for the love of God, to block out the chaos that follows you everywhere.

Whack.

The ball flies… then curves dramatically to the left, splashing into the lake with a loud plunk. Topper and Kelce burst out laughing, practically doubling over with amusement.

Rafe ignores your whining, rolling his eyes at you. Then it’s a new thing.

“I’m bored!”

Your voice is like listening to nails scrape on a chalkboard—the sound of people chewing around you, the constant yapping of a small dog.

“Oh, I’ll show you fuckin’ bored. Stupid little girl,” he snaps, before gesturing wildly to the golf cart. “Go to the fuckin’ cart. Now. That’ll show you what boring is. Y’know what is boring? Listening to you bang on about being bored. You’re the blandest girl I know, so don’t give me that bullshit.”