You ever notice how someone can be perfectly fine doing all the things they want to do, but the second you drag them along to something you enjoy, they act like it’s a war crime? Yeah. That was Bones.

After everything—near-death zip lines, beaches where he somehow became the ladies’ man of the hour, and a nightclub incident I’ll take to my grave—it was apparently his turn to pick the activity. And what does he choose? A winery. A winery. I’d rather take my chances with mutants again.

So there I was, barely holding it together, as Bones strolled through the vineyard looking—get this—relaxed. Like this was the highlight of his miserable life. He guided me past rows of grapes with the reverence of a monk admiring stained glass windows.

“See this?” he said, gesturing at some perfectly average-looking vines. “Takes years to perfect the balance. Soil, sun, craftsmanship.”

I stared blankly. “So… we just look at grapes and talk about ‘notes’? These better be some damn interesting grapes.”

He ignored me, of course. Bones was in his element, appreciating the “art” of winemaking while I fidgeted like a kid forced to sit through a history lecture. I tapped on barrels, ran my fingers over vines, and muttered, “Craftsmanship? It’s fruit. You squish it, it turns into juice. Real complicated.”

By the time we hit the tasting room, I’d decided to “respect the experience.” Which, for me, meant sitting as still as possible and sipping my first glass with the exaggerated seriousness of someone trying to blend in.

“Mmm, yes,” I said, swirling the wine like I’d seen in movies. “Tastes like… grapes. With a hint of boredom.”

Bones shot me a look, the kind that said behave yourself. I ignored it, naturally.

Then the sommelier began droning on about “subtle hints of oak and citrus” and something so ridiculous I nearly choked: “smooth as angels’ tears.”

That did it. "Screw this."

I snorted so hard the wine almost came out my nose. “Angels’ tears? Are we drinking wine or doing Bible study?” I muttered, loud enough for Bones to hear but (hopefully) quiet enough that no one else would.

He glared at me like a parent who knows their kid is about to make a scene. “Reb…”

Too late.

I grabbed the bottle, poured myself another glass, and half of his. Then, with the smug grin of someone about to ruin everyone’s day, I took a massive swig and looked the sommelier dead in the eye.

“Mmm, I’m getting strong notes of… trying way too hard.”

Cue the loud burp. Didn’t even try to hide it.

The sommelier froze like his soul had just left his body. Around us, the room went dead silent. I leaned casually on the counter, smirking. “Don’t worry, this is my first time at a grape museum. You’re doing great.”

Bones groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose and lamented “I knew this was a mistake. I should’ve just let the mutants have me on that zip line.”

Before things could escalate further, salvation arrived—in the form of the winery’s owner. Silver-haired, polished, and with a soft spot for gruff men who look like they haven’t smiled since the apocalypse. She sized up Bones with a knowing smile and said, “You must have your hands full with this one.”

Bones didn’t miss a beat. “You have no idea.”

I squinted suspiciously at her. Women don’t smile at Bones like that unless they’re about to offer him something I’ll have to deal with. Sure enough—

“How about a private tour of the winery?” she purred, all charm. “Just you. A man like you deserves a little peace.”

I nearly dropped my glass. “A little peace? He doesn’t even like wine!”

Bones turned to me, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Smug. Way too smug. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I think I could learn to like it.”

And just like that, he followed her out, leaving me sitting there, fuming.

Cut to me, sitting at the tasting table like a woman betrayed, an empty bottle in front of me and a scowl on my face. I glared at nothing in particular, muttering, “Oh sure, Bones the wine connoisseur. Bet he’s real interested in the… subtle hints of oak.”

An hour later, he returned. He looked… relaxed. Carrying a bottle of the winery’s best vintage like it was some sort of trophy.

I squinted at him. “Have fun, did we?”

He set the bottle down, calm as ever. “Amazing the things you can do with grapes.”

I stared at him, deadpan. “Yeah, squeeze them and they make juice. Real mystery solved, Columbo. This is the beach all over again.”

Bones leaned casually on the table, his calm tone dripping with smugness. “There’s a little more to it than that. Subtle hints of oak, citrus, and… what was it? Angels’ tears?”

Oh, he wanted to play? Fine.

I leaned back in my chair, eyes gleaming with mischief, and let the silence hang. The people nearby turned, drawn to the brewing drama. Then, with theatric sorrow, I sighed and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Bones, on our wedding night, you promised me all this fooling around would stop.”

The room froze. Glasses clinked awkwardly. Bones’ smug face went blank, his mouth opening slightly—but nothing came out.

Someone whispered, “He’s married?!”

I placed a hand over my heart, adding, “I just didn’t think our honeymoon would end at a winery… with this.” I gestured vaguely at the bottle, my voice trembling on the edge of laughter.

Bones snapped out of it, his voice low and warning. “Reb…”

But it was too late.

One of the staff cleared their throat awkwardly. “Congratulations? Uh, would you like a complimentary bottle for the happy couple?”

I smiled sweetly. “That would be lovely.”

Outside, Bones growled, “Wedding night? You went too far this time.”

I laughed, swinging the bottle like a trophy. “Relax, Bones. It’s not like I mentioned the honeymoon.”

He groaned. “Right, that’s it. I’m never going on vacation with you again.”

“Sure,” I said over my shoulder. “Good luck convincing your wife of that.”

So the vacation parody in order in it's entirety. I think we've nailed this.