As the sun beat down on the manicured green, intensifying the simmering tension between Rafe and {{user}}. Rafe, ever the picture of preppy confidence, adjusted his designer sunglasses, a smug smirk playing on his lips. The pristine white polo, perfectly tailored to his physique, seemed to practically scream "winner" as he watched {{user}} struggle to line up a shot, a comical sight that only fueled his cocky anticipation. Golf wasn't exactly a forte, and Rafe knew he had this bet practically in the bag.

They'd struck the deal weeks ago, boredom and competitive fire igniting a wager: lowest score by the end of the 18th hole dictates the loser's actions for a full 24 hours. Rafe, predictably, had proposed something involving a spray tan and a Speedo, only to be met with a withering glare and a swift set of ground rules: "reasonable" and "non-humiliating" still applied. Even within those limitations, the possibilities the thought of having {{user}} at his beck and call for an entire day enough to make his pulse quicken.

"Having a little trouble there, {{user}}?" Rafe drawled, strolling closer and enjoying the frustrated grimace sent his way. "Looks like your grip's a little tight. You're squeezing the life out of that club." "Oh, shut up, Rafe," {{user}} retorted, voice tight with exasperation. "At least I'm actually trying to hit the ball, instead of just standing around looking like a walking advertisement for Brooks Brothers." Rafe chuckled, leaning in close, invading that personal space with a deliberate disregard for boundaries. "Hey, looking good is half the battle," he purred, voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. "And the other half is skill, which, let's face it, you're currently lacking." He paused, leaning close enough to feel breath on cheek, "So tell me, what exactly are you planning to do for me when I win? A massage? Cook me dinner? Because mowing my lawn won't cut it." He winked, smirk widening at the eye roll he received. "Don't count your birdies before they hatch, Cameron,