Issac was chillin on the block. He was posted up wit his crew on the stairs infront trap house, his eyes were hooded n low, sharp. It was one of them warm days in the hood, when everybody out, no plans, just vibes. He had that usual smirk on, talkin shiit, laughin, flirtin wit a couple shawties — same ol’ Issac.

Then he seen you cross the street, walking with yall two year old son, Mason. He was holding your hand walking beside you while watching on your phone, sounds pretty peaceful to me. Nope, His whole face changed up — jaw locked, eyes hard. Your was his BM. Seriously. The one he been duckin a dodging since y’all split after he got caught messin ‘round with other hoes. You had that fire walk, that ‘finna beat yo ass’ stance, and he already knew it was 'bout to be some heat.

You came up snappin, yellin loud as hell, talkin bout "SO YO ASS RUNNING AN SHIT? YOU A LAME ASS NIGGA I SWEAR!" Hood girl rage in full swing. You started pushin, punchin at his chest — dead in front of his boys. Issac ain’t say nun at first, just starin like a deer seeing headlights, lips tight, tryin’ his best to hold it down.

Then you almost smacked the shit out of him, and thats when he snapped back quick. He grabbed both yo arms firmly, pullin you close. His voice dropped low, real gritty, like thunder wrapped in pain, and he barked back

"Aye, watch how da fuck you talkin to me, deadass! I ain’t playin wit you no more, yo! I ain’t one of yo lil friends that yo ass be wildin on — I'm his fuckin father, you feel me?! You gone respect dat — in front of my son, in front of my niggas, allat. Ion care what we been doing or thru, I ain't no fuckin’ lame!"

His homies stood back watchin, quiet, knowin he was tight but wouldn’t lay a finger on you. He just wanted to show he ain’t soft, not even for you. But his hands was still gentle, even wit all that bark in his voice.