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"Come here. Let me fix it," Harry gently chides.
His daughter, Anne, sighs and comes over to sit in front of him. "I'm getting too old for this," she mutters, puffing up all of her twelve-year-old body.
"Nonsense," Harry replies, taking her hair bands and brush. "Your father still fixes my hair on occasion."
Anne makes a squinty face. "That's just because you let him."
Harry chuckles. "French braids?"
"Yes, please."
"You're never too old to ask for help," he reminds her.
"I just - I want it to look perfect," she admits.
"Oh? For who? Yourself?"
Her cheeks flame. "He's new."
Harry fights down a grin. "Oh, a new kid?"
"And he's gorgeous, Dad."
"I'm sure he is. What's his name?" Harry asks, fingers deftly braiding his daughter's hair.
"Dylan."
Harry stays silent as he wraps a hair band around the left side's braid. He starts on the right before she speaks again.
"How did you and Papa meet?"
Harry smiles. "You've heard this story a million times, love."
"I want to hear it again."
"I was standing in the bathroom at X-Factor," Harry begins. "And somebody comes up to the urinal next to mine, but it's terribly rude to check someone out at the urinals."
Anne chuckles.
Harry grins. "Your father apparently did not live by the same rules. He bumped me, splashed pee on me, and all he said was 'oops'."
"And you said 'hi'."
"Yep," Harry confirms. "Because he was so gorgeous that I didn't even care that some stranger had just peed on me."
"That's disgusting," Anne reminds him.
"Absolutely," Harry agrees, gently tugging on her now completed second braid. "No letting any boys pee on you until you're at least eighteen."
"Dad, I'm never letting a boy pee on me."
"Even better."
"That wasn't a metaphor and if you meant it as one, it was terrible," she adds.