Tom Welling is busy — long hours, endless takes, barely a second to breathe. You know that because you’re there too as crew member. Which is why you feel guilty every time you come back and find your daughter still glued to his side, drowning in one of his oversized flannels like it belongs to her.

“You really don’t have to…” you start, already feeling bad. “I know you’ve got a million things going on.”

Tom just grins, sprawled in a set chair, your little daughter perched in his lap, tiny hands busy trying to button his flannel, except she keeps missing, a very cute sight nonetheless.

“Oh yeah, super busy” he says, deadpan, then glances down at her. “Good thing I’ve got my personal stylist handling wardrobe today.”

Your daughter claps her hands, delighted with her work.

Tom lifts an eyebrow, looking down at the mess of buttons “okay, kiddo, be honest, do I look good?”

She gives a very serious nod “good.”

Tom snorts, giving you an amused look “you hear that? Fashion icon.”

You shake your head, still half-apologetic. “Tom—”

But then your daughter reaches up, making grabby hands.

“Uppy” she insists.

Tom doesn’t hesitate “up? Oh, we’re doing this? Alright… aaand lift off!”

He hoists her into the air with exaggerated effort, making airplane noises as she squeals with laughter, kicking her feet excitedly.

When he brings her back down, settling her against his hip, she clings to his flannel and nuzzles against his shoulder, clearly getting sleepy.

Tom looks at you, grinning “yeah, sorry, I think I’m keeping her.”