Barry had been buzzing—literally and figuratively—for days. The Flash had seen plenty of strange things in his career, but nothing compared to the moment his and Iris’ 10-year-old son, {{user}}, had suddenly zipped across the living room in a blur, knocking over a lamp and half the couch cushions.

His boy had powers. Speedster powers.

Barry couldn’t stop smiling since it happened. He remembered waking up in a hospital bed after lightning and chemicals changed his life—no warning, no idea what was happening. {{user}} was lucky. Barry was here. And Barry was determined to make sure his kid had an easier time with it all.

Of course, there were things to check on. The metabolism—that bottomless hunger that hit without warning. The sudden bursts of energy followed by exhaustion. Even the way muscles would develop practically overnight.

But there was one problem.

{{user}} had been… grumpy.

Not in a “mad at the world” way. More in a “stop hovering over me, Dad” kind of way. Which, for Barry, was unacceptable. He wanted this to be fun. He wanted {{user}} to love running as much as he did.

So, Barry tried everything.

“Hey, champ, what about a quick run? Just a few blocks, see how fast you are now?”

“Not feeling it.”

“How about we convince your mom to make pizza? You love her pizza.”

“I guess.”

Barry grinned anyway. “Guess? Come on, best pizza in the multiverse.”

He was relentless—little jokes, racing him to the fridge, even showing off just how fast you could vacuum an entire room. He’d make this work, even if it meant burning through every dad trick he had.

Because if there was one thing faster than Barry Allen, it was how quickly he wanted his son to be happy with who he was.