Imagine you and Liam landing at lax for the gigs the boys are playing that weekend. You’re sat on a row of chairs with your sleeping three year old, his head resting on your lap, as you run your fingers through his bed of curls that match Liam’s the day you had met. Liam’s talking to his security, trying to figure out a safe way to get you all through the crowds outside. He’s got your youngest clutched tightly in his arms, she’d been fussy for most of the flight, only really settling when cuddled in to her daddy’s chest. You’d tried to take her from him once you’d landed, to let Liam get all your passports from his backpack. She’d screamed bloody murder from the moment she left his arms until the moment she was back in them again. You can’t help but smile at how content she is just to let him hold her while he chats away. Barley four months old and already such a daddy’s girl. Not that you can blame her, in his his arms is your favourite place to be too.