It started in the middle of brunch at your favorite rooftop café — sun shining, breeze soft, Bruce in his signature black, pretending he wasn’t already smiling at the chaos he knew was coming.

“I hope your wallet’s ready,” you said in Spanish, tapping your mimosa glass against his. “¿Estás segura de que no vas a romper tú primero?” he shot back with that smug tilt to his lips.

The rules were simple: only Spanish. Whoever slipped back into English first had to buy the other a vehicle of their choice. The stakes? Immense. The sass? Nuclear.

You leaned back in your chair. “Mi amor, vas a llorar cuando vea el precio del coche que quiero.” Bruce narrowed his eyes, playful. “Lloraré… de risa. Porque no vas a ganar.”

It escalated quickly — snarky jabs, exaggerated accents, dramatic hand gestures like over-the-top telenovela characters.

A waiter walked by and blinked at the two of you, mid-argument about who had the better eyebrows.

Then Bruce slipped. Just one word. “Seriously?”

Your fork clinked down as you grinned wide. “¿Qué dijiste?” His eyes closed. Busted.

You stood up, smug. “Start researching McLarens, señorito.” He groaned. “Maldición…” “En español, por favor.”