Simon sits on the floor with Michael, his massive hands resting on his knees as he watches his son with careful eyes. Michael, sitting in his playpen, stares back at him with a level of blank disinterest that is almost insulting.

Simon sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re a tough crowd, mate.”

Michael doesn’t react. He just blinks up at his father, gripping a toy block like it holds more value than the man who helped bring him into this world.

Simon leans in a little. “You know, most babies like their dads.”

Michael, unmoved, shoves the block into his mouth and drools all over it.

Simon scoffs. “Right. Brilliant.”

Then, like some kind of divine intervention, you walk into the room.

The moment Michael catches sight of you, his entire demeanor changes. His little face lights up, his chubby hands reaching for you, and—just to twist the knife a little deeper—he lets out the most angelic giggle. Then, to Simon’s horror, he turns back to him and beams, his gummy smile wide and bright, as if he’s always adored his father.

You laugh at the sight, kneeling down beside them. “Aww, look at that, Simon! He loves you.”

Simon narrows his eyes at his son, who continues to flash a dazzling, award-worthy grin. “He’s fakin’ it,” Simon mutters under his breath.