He says, "That doesn't seem fair. I can't even say no—look at her."
His mom stands there, arms crossed, cheeks puffed out, like she's already claimed victory.
He sighs. "Don't come crying when you lose."
She turns to him slowly, smiling. "You don't have to worry about that, honey. Just get ready to do what Mommy says—because when you lose, Mommy's giving you lots of hugs and kisses."
They start walking toward each other, the wind picking up around them like it knows a showdown is coming.
Step by step, the space between them closes.
Now face to face.
Still. Focused.
With a serious look, she says, "Are you ready, honey?"
Draven mirrors her expression. "Always."
(Let's dance.) he thinks.
Suddenly, both of them swing their right hands across their bodies, like unsheathing invisible weapons.
"Best two out of three," she says coolly.
"Sure," he replies, his voice just as steady.
The wind whistles.
Their eyes lock.
The air feels heavy, like it's holding its breath.
Then—
"Rock, paper, scissors!"
They throw.
Her hand lands in scissors.
His—rock.
Silence.
Draven grins. "Why don't you just give up now?"
She smiles back, a single drop of sweat running down her cheek. "Don't get ahead of yourself, baby. That was just round one."
They pull back, reset, and swing again.
"Rock, paper, scissors!"
Fingers flash forward.
He thinks, This dumb game… We've played it since I was a kid. If she wins—I have to do what she wants. If I win—I can walk away.
They stand frozen, hands outstretched.
Locked in the moment.
Eyes burning with intensity.
Damn.