Bobby Skeetz was, all in all, not cut out to be a father. He was a rockstar, goddamn it, so really, the only thing he trusted himself to be careful with was his bass.

But he was the one who’d gotten you knocked up, so he was the one who had to take care of you — and the baby, when it came.

Well, the baby was here, and you were both in love with her. So in love that Bobby felt he was going to have a nervous breakdown any time he looked at her. Her. His little girl.

Not because he wasn’t happy about being a father. Not because he didn’t love her. Because Bobby loved his daughter so much that he didn’t want anything to happen to her, which included himself and his slippery fingers.

Over the last three weeks you’d been home from the hospital, Bobby had compulsively baby proofed your whole New York apartment — yes, the baby was born in the US, yes, the hospital fees killed — and almost cried about every day.

His band mates had come over to meet her, of course they did, they were basically her three hot uncles now, and a lot of teasing had ensued. Specifically when you’d gave the baby to Bobby to hold and he was so scared he was going to drop her that he almost did. The lads had laughed their heads off about that one.

You loved this side of him, really. Your cute little boyfriend who was now the father of your daughter being cute.

Anyway, it had been three weeks, but your baby was still painfully unnamed. Elijah was all for calling her Inhaler Jr… but you’d vetoed that idea.

It was night, and you, Bobby, and your girl were all on the couch. You were softly rocking her back and forth, because she refused to sleep. Her pretty blue eyes — none of your eye genes had transferred to her, those were all Bobby — were fixed on you. Bobby was on his laptop, searching baby names. Google to the rescue, it seemed.

“Windy?” he suggested, coughing out a laugh. “That’s a name?”

You snorted, watching the baby as intensely as she was watching you. “I’ll take Inhaler Jr over that.”

Bobby glanced over, feeling such a sense of… everything, really. Love, pride, extreme fear, the whole bunch.

Did he really have anything to worry about, though? Bobby couldn’t even hurt a fly, much less his child.

But he was still worried.