The sun isn’t even at its peak yet, but the air in the Country Club feels thick with tension. Glasses clink, laughter echoes, but at the bar sits Rafe — already a few whiskeys deep. His smile is loose, words sharp. With a careless grin, he mimics holding a gun, telling his friend about the recoil of his Glock 17. He jerks his hand like he’s firing a shot, stepping back with exaggerated bravado.

That’s when he bumps into Bob. A man just trying to enjoy a quiet morning with his wife. Bob straightens, his voice calm but edged: “Excuse me.”

Rafe turns, a slow tilt of his head, eyes narrowing. “I’m sorry?” His tone isn’t apologetic — it’s dangerous.

Bob repeats, firmer now. “Do you mind?”

For a second, the whole room feels like it holds its breath. Rafe leans in, jaw tight, eyes locked on the man as though a challenge has been issued. “Yeah,” he says, voice low but razor-sharp. “I do mind, Bob.”

It’s in that moment you step in — heart racing, your pulse loud in your ears. You know that edge in Rafe’s voice too well, the storm building inside him. You slide between them, your hand finding his arm. “Baby…” you murmur, gentle but urgent, tugging him back. His muscles are tense under your touch, like a coil ready to snap.

You glance at Bob, cheeks flushing with embarrassment, and whisper a hurried, “Sorry…” before pulling Rafe away. He resists for just a moment, his stare still locked on Bob, before finally letting you guide him.