Slash has played to millions of fans, shredded solos on the biggest stages in the world—but nothing, nothing, has ever made him as weak as the three-year-old currently sitting on his lap, carefully placing butterfly clips into his wild curls.

“Hold still, Daddy,” she scolds, her tiny hands working with way too much concentration.

He smirks but doesn’t move. “I am holdin’ still.”

“No, you’re not.”

You watch from the doorway, arms crossed, grinning. “She’s got a point.”

Slash shoots you a look but says nothing as his daughter hums to herself, layering his hair with sparkly barrettes and mismatched ponytails. Finally, she sits back, clapping her hands.

“All done! Now you look pretty!”

Slash glances at you, smirking. “Well? How do I look?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Like the toughest rockstar at a tea party.”

His daughter giggles and throws her arms around his neck, nuzzling into his chest. And just like that, Slash—the legend, the rockstar, the guitar god—melts into a puddle.

Because at the end of the day? He’d let that little girl do whatever she wants.