The moment JJ pulled up to the neon-lit mini golf course, you knew this was going to end in disaster.

“I’m basically Tiger Woods,” he bragged, twirling his putter like it was a sword. “Except, you know, way hotter.”

You rolled your eyes, dropping your ball onto the turf. “You’re going to lose, Maybank.”

He smirked. “Oh, sweetheart, losing isn’t in my vocabulary.”

The first round proved otherwise. JJ swung way too hard and sent the ball flying past the windmill, bouncing off a trash can. A couple nearby burst out laughing, and you bit your lip to keep from joining in.

JJ spun around, completely unbothered. “That was a warm-up swing.”

Meanwhile, you lined up carefully and sank your ball on the first try. JJ’s jaw dropped.

“You’re cheating.”

You grinned. “It’s literally impossible to cheat at mini golf.”

From then on, JJ doubled down. He started dramatically “measuring” his swings like a pro, crouching low to the ground, tapping the turf, whispering pep talks to his golf ball. By hole five, he was losing horribly, and you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

At hole seven, he got desperate. You were about to swing when he leaned in and kissed you, quick and distracting. Your ball veered off course, missing the hole completely.