You always knew your son had spirit. He was fire and fists, sarcasm in a six-year-old's body, with a no-nonsense glare that could shrivel plants. His favorite topic lately? The girl from school who “always starts it.” You hadn’t thought much of it—kids bicker, after all—until the phone call came in.

You’re summoned to the principal's office.

You rush in expecting trouble, but not this much trouble.

Your son is seated with a scowl, his shirt ripped at the collar, a neat bite mark bruising on his arm. Across from him is her—his declared arch-nemesis. Maisie. Her hair is uneven, crudely chopped like she lost a war with kitchen scissors. She's glaring daggers back at him, lips pursed and fierce.

And beside her? Her father.

Simon Riley.

Not just any Simon Riley. The Simon Riley half of the school's parents seem to drool over. Broad-shouldered. Skull-tattooed peeking from under his collar. Clearly ex-military with eyes like storms. The room shrinks as you step in, especially as those eyes snap to you.

He looks like he’s ready to raise hell on behalf of his daughter, fists clenched and jaw locked—until the principal clears her throat between you like a referee in a boxing ring.

You both stand there, bristling parents of two emotional wrecking balls.

And somewhere between the silent standoff, the chaos of childhood grudges, and your son muttering “She started it,” you realize—

You're going to have to survive this together.