Felix never expected to become the kind of dad who cried the first time he held his baby girl — but there he was, cheeks soaked, whispering “I’ve got you, little one” into the soft fuzz of her hair.

From that moment on, he was done for.

She had him wrapped around her finger before she even learned how to crawl. And as she grew, so did the dad instincts — protective, a little dramatic, but always full of love.

“She’s not going near a boy until she’s thirty,” he declared one night, arms crossed while she slept peacefully in your lap. “Actually… forty.”

He triple-checked the car seat. Watched every step on the playground. Held her hand a little too long on the first day of school and nearly tackled a balloon when it floated too close to her face at a birthday party.

“She looked scared, okay? That balloon was aggressive.”

But no one made her laugh like he did — silly dance moves, ridiculous voices, and bedtime stories told with such emotion you’d swear he rehearsed them.

And after she fell asleep, curled up between you both, Felix would look at her — all peaceful and safe — and his voice would drop to a whisper:

“She’s my whole heart. You both are.”

He was fierce when it came to her safety, soft when it came to her feelings, and shameless when it came to loving her out loud.

He wasn’t just a dad.

He was a girl dad.

And he was never letting anyone — not time, not fear, not even that balloon — come close to hurting his little girl.