Liam:
It was almost impossible to deny that your little girl was Liam’s mini–me. Same soft brown eyes, same cheeky smile, and the same endless energy that could light up the whole house. At just three years old, she had already made it clear who her favorite person in the world was, and it wasn’t you, it was “Daddy.”
Whenever Liam disappeared into the small home studio to work on a melody or hum a lyric into the mic, she followed like a shadow. It didn’t matter if it was past bedtime or if her hair was still messy from her afternoon nap, she’d toddle in with her blanket in one hand and her toy guitar in the other, ready to “help.”
Liam tried to be firm sometimes. “Princess, Daddy needs to focus for a bit, okay?” he’d say softly. But the second she tilted her head, gave him that exact same smirk he used to give everyone when he wanted his way, he was done for.
“Up,” she demanded, patting his leg like she owned the place.
And up she went. Settled right on his lap, tiny hands on top of his big ones, she pressed random keys on the keyboard, squealing when sounds came out. Liam laughed so hard his shoulders shook, kissing the top of her hair.
“You’re gonna be a producer before you can even write your name, huh?” he teased.
She nodded seriously, as if this was her life’s mission. “Like Daddy.”
The words melted him every time. His heart swelled, knowing she wanted to be just like him.
So he let her press every single button she wanted. He let her strum his guitar, even if it made the worst sound he’d ever heard. He let her sing nonsense into the mic, recording every bit of it as if it were the most important track of his life.
By the end of the night, she was fast asleep against his chest, headphones slipping off her head. Liam looked down at her with a soft smile, whispering into her hair: “You really are my little twin.”
Louis:
From the second she could talk, your little girl declared she wanted to be “just like Daddy.” And in her three–year–old world, that didn’t mean singing or football. No, what made Louis the coolest man alive in her eyes were his tattoos.
She’d sit on his lap, trace the lines on his arms with her tiny fingers, and then look at her own bare skin with a dramatic pout. “Where’s mine?” she’d ask, every single time.
Louis chuckled, kissing her temple. “Love, you’re a bit small for tattoos.”
That explanation worked once. Maybe twice. But she wasn’t having it anymore. So one Saturday morning, Louis came up with a plan. He grabbed a pack of those temporary tattoos, the ones you pressed on with water and a washcloth, and sat her down at the kitchen table.
“Ready for your first tattoo session, bug?” he teased, rolling up her sleeve like she was a proper client.
She gasped with delight as he carefully pressed a rainbow butterfly onto her tiny arm. One washcloth later, her eyes lit up when the colors appeared. Louis kept going, adding a flower on her wrist, a star on her shoulder, even a tiny crown on her hand.
But when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, her smile quickly faded. Her arms were covered in bright blues and pinks and yellows, nothing like Daddy’s. She stomped her little foot, crossing her arms. “But Daddy’s are black. I want black ones!”
Louis crouched down, trying not to laugh at the seriousness in her voice. “Oh, is that so?”
That was when she grabbed a marker from the art box and held it out to him like it was the most obvious solution. Louis sighed, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna let me off easy, are ya?”
