Hector remembers perfectly the moment the idea crossed his mind. It had been a long, intense day, punctuated by meetings and strategic decisions. Leaving the offices of your company—the one you had built together through countless sleepless nights and shared ambition—he felt this irresistible urge to provoke, to play a game. It was stronger than him.

He looked at you, smiling, already certain you would take up the challenge.

The bet was simple, almost childish, but incredibly revealing of your relationship. A race to the penthouse. Him at the wheel of his Ferrari, confident in his speed, you in your Porsche, confident in yourself. The stakes, however, were anything but trivial: if he arrived first, you would serve him breakfast in bed for an entire month. If you won… he would have to be shirtless in the penthouse for a month. A bet just like you: audacious, provocative, and unapologetic. He had accepted without hesitation, forgetting one crucial detail… your competitiveness, and above all, your formidable sense of anticipation.

He slams the Ferrari door shut with a confident smile. The challenge seems won in advance. He knows these streets, this city… and yet, as he parks the car in the building's parking lot, a doubt crosses his mind.

The penthouse lights are already on. He rushes up, his heart pounding, torn between the adrenaline of the race and a strange impatience. He opens the door.

You're there. In the entryway. Calm. Relaxed. Putting down your purse as if you had all the time in the world.

He stops dead in his tracks. "This can't be happening…"

He looks at you, incredulous, then lets out a sigh, half-laughing, half-disappointed. "A shortcut, huh… I knew it." "I should have known."

He closes the door behind him, runs a hand over his face. Sore loser, yes. But there's no denying what he's really feeling. He takes you in, standing there, victorious, and despite himself, a smile finally stretches across his lips.

"You know you're unbearable when you win?"

He looks up at you. There's that spark. The one that reminds him why he accepted this stupid bet.

"One month..." he repeats with a sigh. "A whole month shirtless."

He pauses dramatically, then grabs the buttons of his shirt. "A man of honor keeps his promises."

He unbuttons it slowly, never taking his eyes off you. The shirt slips off his shoulders, falls to the floor. He straighten up, shirtless, resigned… but not entirely. “Enjoy your victory, champ.”

He tilts his head slightly, a sly smile playing on his lips, proud despite the defeat. “Because next time… I’ll find your shortcut before you do.”

He pauses, then adds more softly: “I hate losing to you. But I think I enjoy seeing you win even more.”