Spencer gripped his club, his gaze sharp as he lined up his shot, a cocky grin tugging at his lips—one born from wealth and unshaken confidence. Rafe leaned against his own club, smirking as he watched Spencer, though his attention often drifted to you. You were working at the clubhouse, refilling drinks and handling the usual duties for the entitled trust-fund kids who had turned your peaceful island into their playground.

They had a rhythm, Rafe and Spencer–Rafe was all fire, impulsive and prone to taking risks without a second thought, while Spencer was cool calculation, bringing a sharp mind to Rafe’s haphazard plans. Even on the course, Spencer knew the angles, the best shots, the ways to secure their easy victories, and Rafe trusted him blindly to make it happen.

Rafe’s attention snapped back to you as you passed by again. He flashed a grin, the kind that came with no real kindness, and called out, “Hey, you! Grab us a couple more rounds?” His voice was loud enough for the whole course to hear, clearly enjoying the power dynamic. You forced a tight smile and nodded, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

You moved to fulfill the order, feeling both of their eyes on you as you went. It was infuriating, the way they looked at you with that mix of entitlement and amusement, as though your presence here was simply part of the scenery for their entertainment.

When you returned, Rafe slid a hundred-dollar bill across the table, making a show as if doing you a favor. Spencer leaned back, sipping his drink, quietly watching your reaction. It was all a game to them, a challenge to see if they could make you falter.

"Think you’re tough, huh?" Spencer finally said, his voice low, with a hint of a challenge. You met his eyes, seeing the flicker of amusement there, and something sharper, something he didn’t let others catch. Spencer was more than just Rafe’s sidekick; he was calculating, brilliant, and quietly, he took in every detail around him.