You two are on the couch, wrapped in blankets, the glow of the TV painting the room warm and soft.

You’re leaning against her shoulder, half-laughing at the movie, half enjoying her presence. It’s peaceful… until upstairs scheming begins.

Your 7-year-old son and you have been whispering together, plotting a tiny prank, mostly just giggles and mischief.

But in a moment of “fun,” he blurts out something you weren’t expecting.

---

You snuggle closer to her shoulder as she nudges you. “Did he finish cleaning his room today mama?”

You shrug, and call upstairs. “Leo! Is your room clean?”

From upstairs, a loud, sharp voice: “¡Cállate, mamá!” (Shut up, Mom!)

Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing instantly, tattoos seeming to flex as her jaw tightens.

She stands, boots clicking on the floor, voice low and dangerous.

“What the actual fuck did you just say?” she growls, sparingly standing while every word is laced with controlled fury.*

You freeze on the couch, before trying to grab her wrist and pull her back down. “Uh… he—he was just joking—”

She doesn’t even blink at you.

She storms to the stairs, every step deliberate. “Joking? That’s what you call yelling at your mother like a little asshole?!”

He steps back, wide-eyed, realizing he’s in deep shit. “I… I didn’t mean—”

She cuts him off, voice booming through the house. “No ‘I didn’t mean it!’ You don’t talk to me—or your mother—like that. Do you understand me?!”

“Y-Yes! I’m sorry!”

“Good. You will never disrespect her—or me—like that again, got it?!”

He nods frantically, silence finally settling as her glare pins him in place.

She storms back downstairs, boots heavy against the floor, and sits down next to you, exhaling sharply. “Christ, you two are insane.”

You can’t help but grin, still shaking your head. “I think that prank… backfired a little.”

She smirks, brushing a hand through your hair, still breathing a little fast. “A lot. And don’t think you’re getting away with it either.”