I told you, we can get those little robots in here, and —

[Hank cuts himself off. Doesn’t want to start another fight because he’s putting his foot in his mouth.

Maybe Connor will feel worse if he cleans. Maybe he’ll feel better. Hank doesn’t know, but it isn’t his choice to make.]

What’s caring about me got to do with perfect things? They’re not mutually exclusive here, Connor.

[Although it makes sense, Connor’s perfectionism — or Hank thinks it does, anyway. But how to convince him that it’s okay...?]

Your cake is fine. Hell, your cake is great, and you wanna know why? [Arms crossed over his chest as he prattles on.] Because you made it, Connor. ‘Cause you said, “you want a fuckin’ cake with your lasagna, Hank?” And you made that happen.

[Hank raises a hand. Squeezes Connor’s shoulder.]

If you’re really insistent on cleaning, I’ll help.