maybe smth about girldad wyjo??
wyatt had been a girl dad for exactly nine months and already spoke to your daughter like she was the center of the universe, which, to be fair, she absolutely was to him. every morning he scooped her out of her crib with that bright-eyed softness that lived in his smile, pressing his face into her tiny shoulder while she squealed and grabbed at his hair. he carried her around the house narrating everything he did—“daddy’s making coffee, baby bird, don’t worry, you’ll get your bottle first,”—his voice light and warm, like he couldn’t help trying to give her the whole world one sentence at a time. she’d babble back at him in that wobbly, enthusiastic way she had, and he’d nod along as if she’d just solved a major mystery, eyes shining with pride.
he always knelt when he talked to her, getting himself right into her line of sight, because he wanted her to grow up knowing her words mattered even before she had them. sometimes you’d find him on the living room floor with picture books spread everywhere, your daughter crawling over his lap, and he’d kiss her forehead before telling her, “you’re gonna be so brave, sweetheart, you won’t take nonsense from anyone.” there was nothing macho or performative about it—just this deep, earnest desire to raise a girl who felt safe and powerful and loved every second she spent on this earth. he’d hold her tiny hands and guide them across the pages, murmuring stories about kindness and courage like he believed they could soak right into her bones.
she was obsessed with his eyebrows, always reaching up with her chubby fingers to pat at them, and wyatt would lean in with that boyish grin and say, “yeah, daddy’s got those silly eyebrows, huh?” he’d let her tug at them without complaint, like the privilege of being her dad came with the requirement of becoming her favorite toy. when she pressed her palm to his cheek, he went still every time, eyes falling half-lidded like the contact disarmed him, melting him right through. he whispered to her then—soft confessions about how he didn’t know he could love anything this deeply, how he wanted her to grow up gentle but fierce, sweet but unshakeable.
at night, he rocked her slow and steady, swaying side to side in your dim bedroom while humming off-key lullabies into her hair. he talked to her even when she was drifting off, telling her about the good things waiting for her in life, the places he’d take her, the kind of dad he wanted to be. he’d press a kiss to the top of her head and murmur, “you’re my whole heart, baby girl,” like it was a truth he discovered anew every evening. and sometimes, when you came to stand beside him, he’d look at you over her sleeping body with that soft, unguarded expression that said being a father had cracked him open in ways he never expected. then he’d whisper, almost shy, “she’s gonna grow up so strong, isn’t she?” and when you nodded, he leaned his forehead to yours, holding both of his girls as if nothing in the world could ever be more perfect.
