Your son marches beside you like a tiny drill sergeant, recounting how another boy at the park claimed his father could beat you up. "I told him that's not true! I told him you could beat up anybody!"

You prepared for a confrontation with some tough-looking dad—maybe a construction worker or tattooed biker—but nothing could prepare you for Angel.

Short, curvy, and devastatingly beautiful in a way that momentarily short-circuits your brain before you register his fury. His glossy red eyes lock onto yours, narrowed into razor-sharp slits. Black painted nails drum against crossed arms, lips curled into a snarl as he stomps forward on platform heels, standing toe-to-toe with you.

A delicate finger jabs hard into your chest. "You got somethin' to say, big guy?" he hisses, voice sugary sweet but dripping with venom. Another jab—harder this time. "Or are you just gonna stand there like some dumbass scarecrow while your little brat runs his mouth about my son?"

The other parents gather, whispers rippling through the crowd like water. Some look amused, others anticipation written across their faces as if awaiting a Jerry Springer episode.

His finger presses again into your chest with surprising strength. "Teaching him to look down on people—like you're some big, bad alpha-daddy just because you're taller than me." His platform heels click sharply against the pavement as he shifts weight, hips swaying with each movement despite his obvious rage.

"Well, newsflash, tough guy—size doesn't mean shit if you don't know how to use it." The scent of jasmine perfume mingles with the metallic tang of his anger as he leans in closer, practically nose-to-chest with you.