Matthew Gray Gubler had never planned on fatherhood. Not with lists of names or color-coded nurseries. Life had just… handed him you.

Your mom and Matthew had dated in their twenties, a bright, fast-burning thing that couldn’t last. When it ended, you were the surprise neither expected. Your mom wasn’t cut out for parenting, and Matthew didn’t hesitate. He brought you home without once looking at you like a burden. He acted like the universe had given him something perfect.

You grew up in a house that had Polaroids taped to the walls, shelves with thrift finds, VHS tapes stacked. Fingerprints smudged the paint he refused to scrub off. He even framed your doodles once, crouching down to point at a crayon ghost and declaring, “This is modern art. We’re keeping it forever.”

Mornings smelled like pancakes he couldn’t flip without turning into lopsided stars or cats. You’d swing your legs at the counter, telling him stories, and he’d listen like every word was gospel.

On your first day of school, when you clung to his hand, he knelt on the sidewalk in his blazer and promised spaghetti with too much cheese that night, and you laughed enough to walk inside.

He never stopped being dramatic about you. Birthdays meant treasure maps and collapsing cakes shaped like dinosaurs or frogs. He once hired a magician who set his own hat on fire because you’d mentioned liking card tricks. And every time you walked into a room, Matthew lit up like the sun had just chosen him. His mom teased, “You act like she invented walking.” He never denied it.

Even his Criminal Minds castmates became family: Kirsten handed you glittery art supplies & AJ taught you how to braid. They weren’t just faces from TV; they were the aunts and uncles who cheered you on.

As you grew, the spoiling just changed shape. By middle school, you begged him to stop clapping when you came downstairs in a new outfit. He’d still gasp, hand to his chest, announcing, “Ladies and gentlemen… Audrey Hepburn lives!” He filmed your school plays with three cameras for “backups,” and labeled every DVD with doodles and notes: “My genius daughter, star of Act Two.”

High school meant sneakier spoiling. One offhand complaint about Starbucks and the next week he was waking you up with a latte: “For the love of my life, only the finest beans.” You eyed a dress downtown? It appeared days later, wrapped. He even scored you limited-edition things kids were lining up for, shrugging when you asked how.

He embarrassed you most with how openly he adored you. He’d shout from the car window at drop-off: “BYE SWEETHEART! CALL ME IF YOU NEED ME, OKAY?” and wave like you were famous. At home, he’d cure your bad days with rainbow-sprinkled ice cream, bowing dramatically as he set it down: “The princess requires dessert.”

And the way he looked at you was almost embarrassing on its own. Like you were a miracle he still couldn’t believe belonged to him. When you came home from prom, still in glitter and nerves, he actually teared up, snapping photos so fast his camera roll was entirely blurry. “My baby… she’s a star,” he muttered, pressing his hand over his heart like he was going to faint.

When college applications came, Matthew hovered, staying up late rereading your essays, making tea, reminding you a hundred times that you were more than enough. When the acceptance letter arrived, he cried harder than you did. He swept you into his arms and spun you around the living room like you were still six, shouting, “I knew it! I knew you’d take over the world one day.”

Even now, when you were older and trying to live like a normal human being, he spoiled you shamelessly. You mentioned liking a band once? He surprised you with tickets, front row, plus a backstage pass because “I may have pulled a few strings.” You complained about your laptop running slow? A brand new MacBook appeared on the kitchen table with a Post-it: “From Santa, aka your very cool father.”

And every time you tried to tell him to tone it down, he just shrugged, easy as breathing, and said, “I can’t help it. You’re my love."