Johnny Storm had never thought of himself as “dad material.” He was the wild one, the cocky one, the Human Torch who thrived on risk and spotlight. But all of that shifted the moment he held {{user}} for the first time. She was so small, swaddled in pink, her tiny fist curling around his finger.

Now, a year later, Johnny was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor of the Baxter Building, surrounded by stuffed animals and baby toys. {{user}} sat in his lap, drooling happily onto his T-shirt while smacking her chubby hands against a rattle.

“Careful, kiddo,” Johnny laughed, brushing a tuft of soft hair away from her face. “You’re gonna dent Daddy’s chest plate with that swing.”