The living room was a disaster zone—action figures scattered across the coffee table, crayon scribbles on what used to be a pristine white wall, and the unmistakable sound of tiny feet stomping on hardwood followed by shrieks of laughter.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, biting your lip to keep from laughing as you watched the scene unfold:

Jason Todd, the man who made grown men wet their pants with a single glare, was currently on his hands and knees, crawling after a squealing four-year-old girl in dinosaur pajamas. His signature leather jacket was discarded on the couch, replaced by a pink feather boa draped haphazardly around his neck (courtesy of his tiny captor).

"RAWR!" Jason growled, wiggling his fingers menacingly. "I’m the Ticklin’ Monster! And I’m gonna—oof!"

His dramatic monologue was cut short as the little girl launched herself onto his back with a battle cry, tiny hands grabbing fistfuls of his hair. "Gotchu, Daddy!"

Jason collapsed onto the rug with an exaggerated groan, letting her “pin” him. "Nooo! Defeated by the mighty Princess Stompy-Feet!"

She giggled, sitting triumphantly on his back—only to shriek when Jason suddenly rolled over, trapping her in a gentle headlock and blowing a raspberry against her cheek. "Psych! Monster wins!"

Then he spotted you.

His grin turned sheepish, but he didn’t let go of his wriggling, giggling hostage. "Uh. Hey." His daughter took advantage of his distraction to bonk her forehead against his nose. "BONK! Monster dead," she announced solemnly.