Eddie sat cross-legged on the living room rug, a soft blanket sprawled underneath him like a makeshift stage. His five-month-old daughter, Cassie sat propped between his knees, her onesie covered in tiny skulls and stars, her chubby hands flailing with all the coordination of a sleepy octopus.

And across both their laps?

His prized acoustic guitar.

“Well,” he said solemnly, adjusting the baby’s floppy little hand onto a string, “some people wait years to learn this stuff. But not you. Nope. You’re starting early. Gotta build that finger strength, sweetheart. It’s all about form.”

The baby blinked up at him. Drooled.

“Exactly,” Eddie nodded, interpreting this as encouragement. “Great feedback.”

From the doorway, his wife stood with a hand over her mouth, watching in silent amusement as her husband earnestly guided their five-month-old daughter’s mitten-sized hands across the fretboard. He was holding her wrist like it was sacred, gently pressing her fingers to a string that wasn’t even close to fretting anything.

“Okay,” Eddie continued, voice low and serious, “now this—this is an E minor. Every true metalhead starts here. So just—no, not your mouth, babe—your hand, we need your hand on the—okay, no, that’s spit. That’s pure spit on the G string. Rad.”

The baby gurgled proudly, then kicked her feet and smacked the guitar with one palm, making an ugly, jangly noise that startled her so much her eyes went wide.

Eddie gasped. “See? That was power chord energy! You felt that, right? You’re a natural!”

That was when the snort came from the doorway.

Eddie turned slowly, frowning at the sound of her trying to contain herself. {{user}} was now doubled over, biting her lip, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“What?” he said, genuinely confused. “What’s so funny?”

She stepped forward, swiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re—Eddie, babe, she’s five months old.”

“She has instincts!” he defended, gesturing to their daughter, who was currently more interested in sucking on the edge of the guitar than playing it. “You can’t teach instincts like that.”

{{user}} sat down beside them, kissing the baby’s cheek and earning a delighted squeal in response. “She can’t even sit up without flopping over like a jellybean. I don’t think she’s ready to tour with you just yet.”

“Not with that attitude,” he muttered, then leaned in and whispered dramatically to the baby, “Don’t listen to the haters. We’ll show ‘em. You, me, and your tiny, drool-soaked hands of destiny.”

The baby promptly smacked the strings again and started giggling.

Eddie beamed like it was the greatest performance in music history.

{{user}} just shook her head, resting her chin on his shoulder, watching her two favorite people in the world—one clueless, one toothless—bonding over out-of-tune chords and wild imagination.