oops

you looked at rafe, eyes wide in surprise. in all honesty, you were shocked to hear that your four year old son had it in him to throw a punch. sure, he throws tantrums every now and then, but throwing punches? it seemed crazy, to you.

but your lovely husband? he just sat there, lips twitching like he was holding back a smirk.

“alright,” rafe said, nodding slowly, hands folded over his knee. “so, what’d the other kid do?”

the teacher blinked, caught off guard. “mr. cameron, we—”

“not saying it was right, of course,” rafe added quickly, shooting you a glance, like he definitely saw the way you were staring daggers into his skull and is trying to make sure you know he’s not encouraging it. “just wanna understand the situation.”

the teacher hesitated before sighing. she had expected something like this to happen—it was only right to explain the full situation, even if she wasn’t exactly eager to. usually, in cases like these, parents reacted with embarrassment or concern over their child’s behavior. but rafe? he didn’t seem the least bit ashamed.

“your son and a few of his classmates were playing during free time when the other child approached them. from what we gathered, this boy started taking their toys without asking, telling them they were ‘his now’ and calling them names when they protested.”

oh, it was one of those types of situations.

“your son didn’t pay him much attention at first. but when the boy snatched a toy from your son’s friend and made her cry, that’s when your son stepped in. he told the boy to stop—but when the kid pushed him and went for his toy, too…”

she gave you both a pointed look. “that’s when your son decided to handle it… physically.”

you sucked in a breath. rafe, on the other hand, exhaled through his nose, nodding like that made sense and fully approved the logic behind it.

the teacher continued, “our staff intervened immediately, and no one was seriously hurt. but as you can imagine, we want to make sure that all our students understand that hitting is not the right way to solve problems.”

you felt rafe shift beside you, his knee bumping against yours, and without even looking, you just knew he was holding back a smirk. the air around him practically buzzed with poorly concealed amusement, his fingers drumming idly against his thigh like he was fighting the urge to justify your son right then and there.

before you could say anything, the door creaked open, and in walked your son. your tiny, messy-haired, miniature version of rafe. his little lip was jutted out in a pout, brows furrowed just like his father’s when he was irritated. his hands were stuffed in the pockets of his too-big hoodie, shoulders stiff like he was expecting a full-blown lecture.

“well, i think we’ve covered everything,” the teacher said gently. “i’ll leave you all to talk. just make sure to discuss the situation at home and let us know if there’s anything we can do to help.” she gave a brief nod before exiting the room, closing the door softly behind her.

now, it was just the three of you.

your son walked up, his little feet dragging as he plopped down onto the chair beside you, his feet barely brushing the floor. you could see his little brow furrowed, his pout deepening, and his shoulders sagging in frustration.

“baby,” you sighed, turning toward him gently. “what happened?”

his frown only deepened as he kicked his little feet back and forth, clearly still upset. he looked like he was struggling to put his words together, but you could tell from his sad little expression that whatever had happened really bothered him.

“hey, it’s okay,” you reassured him softly, reaching over to ruffle his messy blonde hair. “you can tell us.”

“we’re not mad, buddy. just tell us what happened.” rafe gave him a soft nod of encouragement too, his voice quiet but warm.

“he was bein’ mean,” he muttered, his voice small. he sniffled and looked down at his lap for a moment before lifting his eyes to meet yours, his lower lip trembling slightly. “he took mary’s truck… and made her cry. he was bad, mama.”

your heart broke a little hearing that. your son had been trying to do things right, even at his little age, when emotions can clearly feel so overwhelming. you squeezed his little hand tenderly, trying to give him the reassurance he needed.

“he took my plane too,” he continued, his tiny hand gripping yours. “i told him it was mine, i said you and daddy gave it to me f’my birday’, but he didn’t listen, mama…” His lip quivered slightly as he finished. “i told him to stop but he wouldn’t.”

rafe’s hand instinctively rubbed his back, the proud look on his face barely hidden, but he said nothing. he was waiting for you to handle this.

“so you hit him?” you pressed gently, your voice soft but firm.

your son hesitated, his little lip jutting out even further as he looked down at his hands. then, he nodded slowly, the smallest, most reluctant nod you had ever seen. at least, he didn’t seem to be entirely proud of what he did, which is good, but he also didn’t seem too sorry about it, which is why it’s important to talk with him about it.

you sighed, taking a few seconds to formulate your thoughts correctly, you didn’t want to be too harsh, but you also didn't want him to think it was okay to do such things, even if the other kid’s behavior was wrong.

“sweetheart, you can’t just go around punching people.”

he looked up at you with those big blue eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. “but daddy does! to the mean bad guys!”

oh. oh no.

your eyes slowly slid over to rafe, who was sitting there way too smug for a man who knew he was in trouble. his lips twitched, and his posture stiffened, but he still looked oddly proud.

the moment your eyes locked with his, his face went stiff. you could practically see his throat bobbing as he swallowed, trying (and failing) to maintain his innocence.

you didn’t even have to say a word. just the look alone was enough to make him break eye contact. he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearing his throat.

“okay, uh—technically? he’s not wrong—”

“rafe.”

he immediately straightened up. “—but! that doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.”

your son just stared at him, unconvinced. rafe sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees to meet his son’s eyes.

“listen, buddy,” he started, his voice softer now. “i know you wanted to protect your friend, and i get it. i really do. it’s like when i wanna protect your mom and make sure no one makes her sad, you know?”

your son perked up slightly at that, his pout getting smaller.

“but the thing is, there are better ways to handle it,” rafe continued. “you gotta tell a teacher, okay? or talk to me and your mom about it. fighting should always be the last option. got it?”

your son’s little face scrunched up as he clearly thought it over, his tiny brow furrowing in deep concentration. after what felt like a small eternity, he nodded solemnly. “m’kay.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, a wave of relief washing over you. he seemed to understand, at least a little bit. but then, of course, your son looked up at rafe, eyes wide and full of innocence. he whispered in his best serious voice.

“but if the kid is really really mean…”

rafe barely held back a grin, clearly trying to fight off his pride, his lips twitching as he met your gaze. you could already tell this was not going to end well. without thinking, you elbowed him lightly in the ribs, shooting him a warning glare.

“no fighting, baby, please.” you reinforced, giving your son a soft pointed look before shooting another glare at your so-called husband.

“yeah, yeah. no fighting.” rafe sighed dramatically, even if deep down, he was incredibly proud that your little man was standing up for himself.

“only if really necessary,” your son added, eyes wide with innocence.

rafe snorted and you swatted his arm, trying your ultimate best to keep a smile off your lips.

with that, you grabbed your son’s tiny hand, gently pulling him toward the door as rafe trailed beside you, way too pleased with how this whole thing went.

as soon as you were outside, you turned to your son. “okay, we’re going straight home, and we’re gonna talk about why hitting is bad.”

“and how to throw a better punch?” rafe teased.

“rafe!”

“okay, okay!” he laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “i’m kidding, princess.”

your son giggled, already looking up to his dad like he was the coolest person on earth. you sighed. this was going to be a long couple of years.

but as you watched your son happily grab onto rafe’s hand as well as yours, looking up at him with those big, bright blue eyes, you couldn’t help but smile.

because, god help you, the two of them were exactly alike.