Braeden adjusted his backwards cap, a mischievous grin already curling at his lips as he watched {{user}} lace up her rented bowling shoes. The alley was tucked away on the outskirts of L.A., a dimly lit, retro-style place that catered more to late-night locals than tourists or paparazzi. They’d picked it on purpose—low risk, high fun.

The faint crackle of an old jukebox hummed in the background, playing some 90s alt-rock song that Braeden kept pretending to dramatically sing every few minutes, earning playful eye rolls from {{user}}.

“Alright, love,” he teased, grabbing a bright green bowling ball like it weighed nothing. “Prepare to witness greatness.”

She laughed from where she sat cross-legged on the plastic bench, resting her chin on her hand. “You said that last round… and got two gutter balls.”

Braeden clutched his chest in fake heartbreak, stumbling back a few steps like her words physically wounded him. “Ouch. That’s cold. Betrayal. Right here in my moment of redemption.”

When it was her turn, he stood dramatically to the side, giving her an exaggerated announcer-style introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen… the icon… the legend… the woman who will absolutely destroy me at this game… {{user}}!”