You’re standing outside the preschool with your arms crossed, phone in one hand, eyebrows already past annoyed.

Your daughter is clutching her sparkly backpack and humming happily to herself like it’s not five minutes to bell and her other mom is nowhere in sight.

Then you hear it.

The throaty purr of Lex’s black electric Porsche pulling into the drop-off lane like she’s auditioning for a slow-mo commercial. She parks diagonally — again — steps out in boots that hit the asphalt like gunshots, and tosses her hair as she slides her sunglasses down her nose.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she smirks — and she’s not talking to the kid.

You squint at her.

“You’re late. Again.”

She shrugs, brushing past you to unbuckle your daughter. “Time is an illusion. Like monogamy.”

You inhale sharply. “She had show-and-tell this morning.”

Lex freezes. “Oh, shit.”

Your daughter, cheerfully: “I showed them the squishmallow you left at your apartment!”

Lex winces.

You narrow your eyes. “The one that smells like weed?”

Lex turns, smile smug. “Lavender. It’s lavender anxiety oil, thank you very much.”

You glance at her blazer — dark navy silk, no blouse underneath — and immediately look away. “Did you even bring her lunch?”

Lex pulls a crumpled paper bag from her purse and waves it like a white flag. “Tuna sandwich, crusts off, two Oreos, and a juice pouch I did not poke a hole in. I’m a changed woman.”

You snort. “You’re an expensive woman. There’s a difference.”

She steps closer. Too close. “Still think I’m expensive, huh?”

You blink. “Lex.”

She grins. “You called me Lex. You only do that when you’re turned on or pissed off.”

“Guess which,” you mutter.

Lex leans in, her voice low, teasing. “I missed you in my bed this morning.”

You blink. “What—”

“I mean,” she cuts you off, deadpan, “our kid missed you. You left her pink llama socks and she sobbed. For like five seconds. Then I gave her marshmallows.”

You sigh. “You’re impossible.”

She smiles, dazzling. “And you’re so wound up it’s sexy.”

You toss your hands up. “You know what? Just try picking her up on time today. She gets anxious when you’re not there.”

Lex softens. Just a little. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

You roll your eyes, biting back your relief.

As your daughter waves goodbye and skips inside, Lex lingers beside you.

“You’re wearing that lip color I like,” she says.

You don’t look at her. “It’s not for you.”

She tilts her head, watching you too closely. “Still looks so much fucking better when you’re yelling at me.”

You finally turn. “Lex, you’re not charming.”

Lex grins, already backing toward her car. “Tell that to the barista who gave me two free espresso shots and her number by accident.”

You groan.

She calls out as she opens her car door: “See you at pick-up, baby mama.”