After you annihilated Bruce in the hand-clap game showdown — and never let him forget it — he bided his time.

You should’ve known.

One morning, you stepped into the living room and stopped dead. Bruce stood there, arms folded, a sly smirk on his face. Behind him? A full-blown obstacle course set up in the backyard, complete with cones, tires, hurdles… and a Nerf gun sniper station.

“What the hell is this?” you blinked.

“The rematch,” he said simply. “My game. My rules.”

You squinted at him. “Bruce. Be serious.”

“I am.” He handed you a sweatband and a Nerf vest. “Winner gets anything they want.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“That’s what I said.”

Cue the most ridiculous afternoon of your life — crawling through hula hoops, rolling under chairs, sniping plastic ducks from twenty feet. Bruce was deadly serious, military-grade precision with every throw, but the minute you tripped over your own foot and landed in a bush, he snorted.

And then you ambushed him with a Nerf dart to the face.

“Cheap shot!” he shouted, laughing.

“War is war,” you yelled, diving behind a trash can.

You ended up tangled on the grass, both out of breath, flushed, and grinning. He leaned over you, eyes bright. “Call it a draw?”

You smirked. “Only if we both get what we want.”

“Deal.”