ᯓ★ Rafe Cameron was the cocky, overconfident—basically the prince of Kooks.

And worst of all, your boyfriend.

It didn’t help that you were friends with the Pogues, even if you were a Kook yourself. It was never a secret. He knew—he always knew.

And he hated it.

Especially Pope Heyward.

Maybe it was because someone told him Pope liked you. Maybe it was just the way Pope talked to you—too comfortable for Rafe’s liking.

You’d been together since middle school, so breaking up over it was never something he considered.

But the arguments?

Constant.

Because Rafe didn’t just dislike the Pogues—he made sure they knew it.

Still… you loved him.

And he had promised you he wouldn’t go too far. Said he trusted you—just not them.

⋆˙⟡ —

The country club was quiet, clean, and suffocatingly perfect.

Rafe had his arm slung around your shoulders, pulling you into his side while holding his golf club in the other.

“You getting sunburned, baby?” he asked, squinting slightly.

“I’m fine,” you said, smiling faintly.

He smirked and swung anyway, the ball flying far—too far—earning annoyed shouts from a few older men nearby.

You laughed softly, covering your mouth.

Rafe just grinned.

His hand moved to your back as you walked down the small hill together—

Then he stopped.

“Whoa, woah, woah.”

His arm dropped as his gaze locked ahead.

Topper followed, already sighing. “It’s fine, just let him go. Let’s go get your ball.”

“They put a gun to your head, bro.” Rafe muttered, tapping the club against his chin.

“Rafe, seriously,” you added, tugging his arm. “Let it go.”

But he was already moving.

“Rafe—come on,” you called, following him.

He stepped right in front of Pope, blocking his path with the golf club.

“Hey, man. How much for one of those beers?”

You crossed your arms, giving Pope a small look.

Just go along with it.

“Oh wait,” Rafe added, tilting his head. “You can just give us one, right?”

“Babe, we can just get one from the—”

“Or,” Pope cut in, voice tight, “you can just order one like everybody else.”

You shut your eyes briefly. Rafe went still. Then his expression hardened.

“Did you just interrupt my girl?” he said lowly. “That’s kinda fuckin’ rude.”

He shoved Pope.

The bag shifted in his hands.

“Rafe, stop—” you tried.

“But your own—” Pope snapped back, pushing them away—

Topper jumped in to get the box of beers, but in the process shoved Pope down.

“Oh—shit, my bad, man.”

Everything escalated too fast.

“What is wrong with you? Stop!” you yelled.

Pope pushed himself up, ready to swing— But Rafe was faster. The golf club hit his stomach. Then his back.

You gasped, covering your mouth. “Rafe—! Topper, do something!”

“Stay down, bitch. Rafe spat, crouching slightly. “You talk to my girl again? It’s gonna be worse.”

“Stay off Figure Eight, Pogue.”

Then he stood, like nothing happened. He grabbed your hand, pulling you with him.

You stumbled slightly but followed, your heart racing.

And just for a second— You looked back. Meeting Pope’s eyes with a silent apology.