Eddie sat in his black truck, engine idling softly as the warm California sun beat down. The pick-up line was its usual chaos, parents in a rush, cars honking, kids darting across the crosswalks with backpacks bouncing. Beside him in the passenger seat, {{user}}, his oldest, scrolled quietly on their phone, glancing up every now and then toward the school doors. Eddie smiled faintly, patient, steady. He had been through enough deployments and fire calls to know how to wait.

Finally, the first wave of students started pouring out, teachers shepherding them toward the line of cars. Eddie leaned forward slightly, scanning for Christopher.

That’s when the sharp, impatient honk blared from behind him.

Eddie’s jaw tightened.

Another honk. Then the squeak of a car door opening. Eddie exhaled slowly, already bracing himself.

A man strode up to his driver’s side window, knocking hard enough to rattle the glass. “Hey, buddy!” the guy barked, pointing back toward Eddie’s handicap placard on the mirror. “You can’t park here. These spots are for people who actually need them.”

Eddie blinked, stunned for a second before his eyes narrowed.

The guy didn’t stop. “You think it’s funny to just take a handicap spot ’cause it’s closer? You’ve got no business being here. Unless you’re hiding a wheelchair in that truck bed, you’re just lazy.”

Eddie felt the heat rise in his chest, that familiar surge that came with disrespect. He pushed open the door and stepped out, his full firefighter’s build casting a shadow across the pavement.

“Watch your mouth,” Eddie said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut.

The man scoffed, folding his arms. “What? I’m just telling the truth. You’re abusing the system. Guys like you make it harder for people who actually need these spots.”

Eddie’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He took a deliberate step closer, his voice rising. “You don’t know a damn thing about me or my family. My son has cerebral palsy. He needs these spots. So don’t you ever—”

At that moment, the school doors opened wider, and Christopher emerged with his aide, moving carefully with his crutches, his backpack strapped snug against his shoulders. Eddie’s chest tightened, not with anger now, but with pride.

“That’s my son,” Eddie growled, stabbing a finger toward Christopher. “And you just insulted him. So unless you want me to forget every bit of self-control I’ve worked on the last few years, get the hell away from my truck.”

Some fights were worth picking. And for his kids, Eddie would never hesitate.