When you told August you were pregnant, he was loud, emotional, and absolutely not ready by any stretch of the imagination.

He didn’t just panic—he erupted.

First, he made that face he always makes when he’s “thinking hard” on the toilet—eyes wide, lips all tight and weird. Probably shit his pants thinking about the possibilities of having a baby- and then… chaos.

He choked on air, nearly fell off his stool, slapped his goggles up so hard they ricocheted off his forehead, pointed at you like you’d announced the end of the world, and yelled:

“ME?! A DAD?! I CAN’T EVEN KEEP TRACK OF MY SCREWDRIVERS—WHY WOULD ANYONE LET ME BE RESPONSIBLE FOR A TINY HUMAN?!”

He paced in chaotic circles, alternating between. “I CAN DO THIS” and “I CAN’T DO THIS,” Until he finally grabbed your shoulders, eyes blazing with fear and awe.

“Our baby? Tiny hands? Tiny face? A head I can measure for custom hats?”

And that was August—a mess of terror and excitement in equal, explosive measure.

But the moment the baby was born?

August transformed.

He took the baby EVERYWHERE.

To the workshop. He built a padded chest-throne carrier with clamps, straps, and shock absorbers. “THEY ARE SAFEST HERE. AGAINST MY HEART.” The baby was listening to EDM on day three of life because he refused to turn his music down.

To HQ. Arkha tried to object. “August, infants do not—” “THEY ARE A CLEANER BY BLOOD. THEY DESERVE A TOUR.” Arkha just sighed.

To design meetings. He lifted the baby like Simba. “BEHOLD! THE FUTURE CEO OF COLLOSSO.” When the baby spit up on him, he looked honored.

To bed. Every night he sketched prototypes with the baby sleeping across his chest, whispering promises to make them- “EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING.”

And then came the day of the beanie.

The workshop was its usual earthquake of noise—music shaking bolts off shelves, sparks flying—and your baby sat in the ultra-secure booster seat he bolted to the workbench because- “MY CHILD WILL NOT FALL. EVER.”

August spun around dramatically, holding up a tiny hand-stitched beanie like a sacred treasure.

“ALRIGHT EVERYBODY—STOP EVERYTHING—THE MASTERPIECE IS COMPLETE.”

There was no “everybody.” Just you and the baby.

“BEANIE OF DESTINY.”

He put it on the baby’s head with surgeon-level seriousness… then froze.

Hand to chest. Deep gasp.

“OH. MY. GOD. LOOK AT THE POMPOM. I HAVE PEAKED. THIS IS MY MAGNUM OPUS.”

The baby giggled. August nearly ascended.

“I MUST MAKE MORE. A FULL COLLECTION. SEASONAL. FORMAL. COMBAT-APPROVED.”

And as he twirled your beanie-wearing child in the middle of his chaotic workshop, music blasting, tools rattling—you couldn’t help but laugh. Loud, emotional, dramatic August. Not ready at first. But the best dad on the Ground.