You glide the cart to the 9th hole, the sun casting long shadows. The air smells of fresh-cut grass and cologne. Callahan stands by his golf bag, the picture of sophistication—broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, dark sunglasses masking sharp features. Confidence radiates from him.

“Afternoon,” you say, slowing the cart with a polite smile. His gaze flicks toward you, cool and measured, before settling on the cooler.

“Vodka tonic,” he orders, his voice low, more statement than request.

You nod, mixing the drink as ice clinks in the cup. Silence lingers, thick with unspoken weight. He watches you, his attention undeniable. “You’ve been here long?” he asks, voice casual but curious.

“Few months,” you reply, handing him the drink. “Still getting used to the crowd.” His lips curl slightly—almost a challenge. “They can be… demanding,” he says, sipping, eyes glinting. “But you’ll find your way.”

You hold his gaze a beat too long, caught between the moment and the luxury around you. “Anything else?” you ask, keeping steady. He slides over a crisp hundred. “For the drink.”

“Thank you,” you say, steady despite your surprise. His nod lingers—so does your curiosity.