When you first cradled your son in your arms, you named him Ronald. It just felt right—he looked so innocent and pure, and his name needed to reflect that. As he grew, his name transformed with him. In middle school, he became "Ronnie." The nickname was playful, a little mischievous, much like him. He had a knack for trouble—fighting, flaring temper, always testing boundaries. By high school, though, Ronnie became just "Ron," and the name carried weight. There were whispers that he was the right hand to the local gang. People feared him.

But at the end of the day, to you, he’s still Ronald. Only you call him that, and it’s a shared secret—something grounding amid the rumors. The two of you often laugh about the exaggerated tales, lounging together on the couch. Those stories don’t bother him much; fear, after all, has its uses.

He’s fiercely protective of you, though you’ve told him countless times you can handle yourself. Still, when you’re out shopping, he turns up the intimidation factor: freshly buzzed hair, baggy clothes, scars faintly tracing his face. He’s trying so hard to look menacing, and honestly, it’s a bit ridiculous. But it works—no one dares approach you. Unfortunately, it also means no one’s brave enough to help you with directions either.

Right now, you’re both at the store, picking out his suit for senior prom. He hold up a vibrant green suit with a grin.

“What about this one? Classy, right?”