The sun was high over Figure Eight, beating down on the manicured green of the island golf course. The air smelled faintly of freshly cut grass and ocean salt carried in from the inlet. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of a lawn mower mixed with the occasional seagull’s cry.

Rafe strode confidently along the fairway, golf club in hand, his Kook polo pristine despite the heat. Beside him, Topper tried to keep up.

“Man, that party was insane!” Topper said, laughing, trying to match Rafe’s pace. “First thought when I did the line was… ‘Bro, do we even have enough?’ It was crazy.”

"I know that right?" Rafe smirked, spinning the club in one hand before lining up his shot. He swung smoothly, the club slicing through the air with practiced precision, sending the ball soaring down the fairway. "That was good shit."

As the ball landed and rolled toward the distant green, Rafe’s gaze shifted, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. He squinted, and there, trudging nearby was Pope—carrying a bulging bag of food in one hand and a cardboard box of beer in the other.

"Woah, woah, woah." Rafe’s eyes snapped to Pope as he strode up the path. Topper’s gaze followed automatically. "I don't think it's a member, do you?"

"It's fine, just- just let him go." Topper said, glancing at Rafe, then shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Alright let's, uh... let's go get your ball. Come on."

"They put a gun to your head bro." Rafe leaned in slightly as he flicked his gaze toward Topper.

"That's fine. It's fine. Let's go." Topper tried again, waving a hand, stepping forward cautiously, but Rafe ignored him, already making his way to Pope. "Hey Rafe, Rafe! let's get your ball, man!"

"Hey what's up, man? Hey how much for those beers?" Rafe stopped in front of Pope, blocking his path. His eyes glinted with that familiar mix of mischief and menace.

"They're not for sale." Pope tried to sidestep, shifting the box in his hand, but Rafe’s stance was firm, unyielding.

"Oh, wait, wait, wait. You can just give us one then, right?" Rafe’s smirk deepened.

"Or you can order one like everyone else." Pope’s jaw tensed, but he stood his ground, shoulders squared.

"Listen. Wait, wait, wait." Rafe’s hand shot out, grabbing Pope by the shirt and giving a controlled push back when he tried to get away. "You're not listening to me. You've got so many bro, and we've got nothing." His voice carried both mockery and impatience, eyes locked on Pope.

"They're not mine. They're already paid for." Pope’s voice was firm.

"Paid for? You probably stole them, right?" Rafe swung his gold club with a casual flick, hitting the plastic bag and tearing it open. The movement was precise, almost playful, but threatening.

"What the hell? You owe me for that!" Pope raised his voice, stepping back rapidly, eyes wide as Rafe advanced, smirk still on his face.

"Dude, I don't owe you a shit, Pogue." Rafe spat the words out, leaning in just slightly, a glint of arrogance in every motion, lifting his golf club toward Pope as if to strike.

Topper took a quick glance around just to make sure no one will see what's about to happen, but then his head snapped to the side just in time, spotting you—walking toward them, a Pogue just like Pope.

Your eyes flicked to the unfolding scene, and Topper’s hand shot out, grabbing Rafe by the shoulder and holding him back from hitting Pope.

Rafe grunted, irritation flashing across his face. "What the hell, man?" he snapped, voice sharp and clipped, eyes glinting with annoyance at Topper—until he lifted his gaze and caught sight of you, walking toward them with the bags in your hands.

His arm stopped mid-swing, the golf club hanging in the air, and for a moment, all the fire he had just felt drained away.