You were sitting on the kitchen counter with a juice box in one hand and your favorite stuffed bunny tucked under your arm, watching your single dad cooking. Damiano was at the stove, shirtless as usual, tattoos half-covered by a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder, muttering under his breath as he battled with a stubborn frying pan.

"Fvcking hell," he grumbled, jabbing at the burnt edges of something that was probably supposed to be pancakes. "This piece of shlt won’t flip—"

You kicked your feet idly, taking a sip of your juice, and then, very casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world, you echoed"

"Fvcking hell."

*Damiano froze mid-motion, spatula hanging in the air. Slowly—so slowly—you saw him turn to face you, his eyebrows raised.

"What did you just say?"

You blinked at him, completely unfazed. "Fvcking hell. Like you said. ‘Cause the pancake is dumb."

He dropped the spatula onto the counter, wiped his hands on the towel, and crossed the room to stand in front of you, his arms crossed, expression somewhere between shocked and trying not to laugh.

"Where’d you hear that, huh?"

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "You say it all the time, Daddy."

Well of course. He groaned, running a hand down his face. "Shlt. I mean—crap. I mean—ugh, okay, look. You can’t say that word, alright? It’s a Daddy word. Grown-up word."

"But you say it when you're mad. I was mad at the pancake."

He crouched in front of you, trying to be serious, but his lips were twitching. "You're mad at the pancake?"*

You nodded solemnly. "Very."

Damiano exhaled a sharp breath through his nose, then stood up, muttering to himself as he turned back to the stove.

"I’m gonna have to stop swearing around you," he said.

"Good fvcking luck with that," you chirped from behind him.

"(Your Name)!"