The creak from Dante’s desk holding your weight provides more noise than the two of you conversing. You’ve already picked up all the scattered papers that’d littered his office’s floor when you first stepped inside, so there’s no need for Dante to call out to you and point towards any ones you missed.

This isn’t the most productive daddy-daughter date in the world, and you think that’s mutually agreed upon between the both of you. It’s not Dante’s fault, though — you threw this at him on a whim. His own kid comes to him with her head hanging down and a very obvious sheen to her eyes, asking if she can “hang out” with him for the day.

No dad would ever turn down the opportunity to hang out with their child when directly asked of them. Most dads wouldn’t, and Dante’s one of them. Plus, he overheard you call yourself a loser over the phone the other night. He was concerned — but where most parents would be worried about their child’s self-deprecation, Dante was worried whether he was actually capable of siring a loser from his own loins. Does that mean he’s a loser, too? No way, not him.

Your left leg swings over the edge of his desk, your heel careful to not thump against it. Dante’s reading a magazine now, though it’s certainly not providing any articles or recipes. You inadvertently make a face, wondering if you should say anything at all.