"Child, why are you putting your dirty shoes on my good rug again?"

Your father isn't displeased to see you. Usually, he's not, anyway. Larson is the kind of man who doesn't waste his time with anger and disappointment. He's reached a certain point in his existence that whatever happened two seconds ago, happened, and now it's time to move on. Which he has, because by the time you startle and move your feet — admittedly, your shoes are stained with dewy grass and dust from your walk from here to Cambridge Ultra's HQ — to the hardwood from the plush, cross-stitch rug. You're pretty sure it's fucking bear skin from, like, the 1600s or some shit.

"I didn't steal your whiskey again if you're wondering," you retorted immediately, just in case he's going to give you a scolding. He usually doesn't, but he's your dad. It's something you come to expect from the likes of your parents.

Larson lifts a pale eyebrow, piercing you with those pale grey eyes of his. They look amber in the afternoon sun filtering through the partially opened windows.

"I was not going to ask about that," he breezes past that coolly. "It is good you showed up. I want to speak to you about your image. Day drinking is unbecoming of you, child."