The apartment is finally quiet.

Not clean—never clean—but quiet. The neon from the cafe below sign spills in through the blinds, casting the room in that familiar red glow. Empty pizza boxes are stacked like a lazy monument to poor life choices. Ebony & Ivory are slung on the coffee table, next to a chipped mug of what might be whiskey or just very bad coffee.

Dante’s slouched across the couch like it’s trying to swallow him whole—legs kicked up, one arm draped across the backrest, the other gently cradling you against his chest.

“You know,” he says lazily, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him, “when people said having a kid changes your life, I didn’t think it meant this much back pain.”

You gurgle in response, clutching a strand of his silver hair in your tiny fist. He flinches, but doesn’t move.

“Yeah, yeah. You think it’s funny. You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, flicking your nose gently with one finger.

There’s a beat of quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the building settling.

Then a soft sigh. Not annoyed. Not sarcastic. Just... tired. The kind of tired that sits in your bones, but you’re too stubborn to let it win.

“Y’know,” he says again, voice lower this time, “wasn’t really planning on adding ‘demon-hunting babysitter’ to my resume. But... turns out I’m kinda killing it.”

You yawn and snuggle closer under his coat, and he lets a small smile slip past the usual smirk.

“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone,” he murmurs, eyes finally drifting shut. “Wouldn’t want to ruin my rep.”