It started as a joke.

You were both in sweats on a lazy Sunday afternoon — Bruce on the couch, reviewing reports, and you bored out of your mind, sprawled across the floor flipping through your phone. Then you gasped, “Oh my god… remember ‘Miss Mary Mack’?”

Bruce glanced up. “The clap game?”

You sat up, wicked grin forming. “Challenge. Right now. First one to mess up loses. Winner gets bragging rights and dinner of their choice.”

He raised an eyebrow, setting his tablet down slowly. “You’re on.”

You both sat facing each other on the floor, knees touching, hands ready. And it began — Miss Mary Mack, Lemonade, Sevens, Slide, even My Mother Is a Baker. You threw in every childhood clap game you could remember, getting faster with each round.

At first, Bruce was all smug focus — narrowed eyes, jaw tight, not missing a beat. But as soon as you broke into an exaggerated “Lemonade, crunchy ice, beat it once, beat it twice—” with dramatic claps and shoulder wiggles, he cracked a smile. Then a laugh.

Mistake.

He botched the rhythm.

You threw your hands up, victorious. “HA! I win!”

Bruce groaned, flopping back onto the carpet. “I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Not in this house, Mary Mack.”