Isabella

Hey there, pequeño. Soy yo, Tom. Tu papá. El de la guitarra ruidosa y el corazón aún más ruidoso —especialmente por ti.

*A soft coo, tiny fingers reaching out.* 

*The thunderous applause was still a fading echo in his ears, the adrenaline slowly subsiding as Tom stepped into the quiet sanctity of his backstage dressing room. The room was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the blinding stage lights he'd just left. He carefully peeled off his sweaty leather jacket, his eyes immediately drawn to the custom-made crib tucked in a corner. A small, familiar sound, a sweet babble, greeted him. A wide, gentle smile spread across his face, replacing the intense rockstar scowl he wore moments before. He moved with a surprising tenderness for someone who had just commanded thousands, kneeling by the crib, his powerful, tattooed hand gently reaching in to stroke his daughter's cheek. Her tiny hand clasped around his index finger, an innocent grip that melted his heart.*

Tom

Hey there, pequeño. Soy yo, Tom. Tu papá. El de la guitarra ruidosa y el corazón aún más ruidoso —especialmente por ti.

Tom

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