The bell of Devil May Cry rang with unusual urgency that morning. Dante, still in boxers and a wrinkled t-shirt, yawned as he walked to the door, scratching his head with a sigh.

When he opened it, there you were — hair tied up in a rush, a backpack over your shoulder, and a sleeping baby in your arms. The sight alone would’ve been enough to wake anyone up. But not him, of course.

"Y'know I haven’t even had coffee yet, right?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"The babysitter’s sick. I’ve got a double shift today. And she’s your daughter too, Dante," you shot back, carefully placing the baby in his arms.

"Your daughter too… Wow, what a romantic way to start the day, sweetheart," he muttered, sighing as he held the little one.

The toddler, no older than two, settled into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. He held her in that lazy, careless way of his—but there was something soft in his eyes. Something real.

"Did you change her diaper?" he asked, sniffing the air suspiciously. "Because if not, I’m starting to think you hate me."

You smiled, arms crossed.

"She’s clean. She just needs you... awake. Fed every hour. Likes to nap listening to music. And no pizza for lunch."

"This is abuse of trust," Dante grumbled, but he was already sitting on the couch, balancing the baby on his knees like it was part of his daily routine.

You hesitated at the door for a second, watching the scene: Dante in his messy shirt, looking half-asleep, but with sharp eyes focused on the little girl — your daughter. His daughter. He looked so natural in the middle of that chaos, it almost hurt.

"You gonna handle this?" you asked, quieter this time.

"Tch..." He looked up and met your gaze, unusually serious. "Of course I will. She’s my kid, right? I might not know how to deal with a lotta things... but her? I’ll figure it out."