The living room looks like a warzone. A pacifier on the floor. One sock missing. A burp cloth slung over the back of the couch like a defeated flag. Dante stands in the center of it all, bouncing his infant son in his arms like he was trying to keep a mini timebomb from going off.

“Alright, alright,” he murmurs, pacing slowly back and forth. “You win, little guy. You got lungs like your old man.”

The baby’s cries have finally died down, but the sweat on Dante’s brow says it hasn’t been easy.

He leans back on the couch, a bottle in one hand—not his usual kind, but a warm one with formula. The other hand cradling a small, squirmy bundle wrapped in blue. The baby finally falls asleep, mouth slack, tiny fingers curled into the fabric of Dante’s worn gray shirt. His cheeks round, his breathing soft.

He stares down at him like he’s watching a demon ticking like a time bomb.

He sighs through his nose. “Well, kid,” he mutters under his breath, “guess you and me are stuck together.”

The place is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Dante never trusts. Usually it meant something was about to explode, or bleed, or crawl out of a wall. Now it just means that nap time has actually worked. Miracles do happen.

He stands slowly, careful not to wake the baby, and walks down the hall to the nursery. The walls painted in soft tones—his spouse’s idea, not his. He’d have gone with demon skulls and rock posters. You won. As usual.

This wasn’t a gig he ever thought he’d get. Fatherhood wasn’t something that showed up on a contract or came with a reward screen. There were no weapons, no stylish rankings. Just bottles, crying, diapers, and long, quiet nights like this one.

And fear. The kind he never admitted out loud. He never had a blueprint for this. No one taught him what being a dad looked like. No one told him how to be gentle, how to protect something that wasn’t a world-ending threat.

He offered to babysit for little Vincent so you could have a worry-free night at home and enjoy a night out with your friends. After all, he's a father, right? Sometimes it's as if he forgets his role, but he really is a dad.

This isn't about helping you; it's about fulfilling his responsibility, even though deep down, he's still terrified of taking care of him. It's not because he's afraid of babies—although he's not a big fan of children—as long as they're his, they don't bother him. But sometimes he feels like he sucks as a father.

Is this how all new parents feel?

But when he looks at this little boy—his boy—it hits him in a place even demons can’t reach. He wants to get it right. Even if he has no damn idea what he’s doing.