The light in the kitchen was gray and thin, early enough that even New York hadn’t found its full volume yet. The windows fogged from the warmth inside, though Egon had cracked one open for the sake of the slime. He moved with slow precision, spoon in one hand, a small containment jar in the other, the glowing pink mass wobbling with mild indignation. Across from him at the tiny table, scratched, scuffed, and once salvaged from the sidewalk, {{user}} sat curled around a chipped mug, watching him the way someone watches a familiar magic trick they still don’t quite get.

"Technically, it's not aggressive unless you insult it," Egon said, voice dry as burnt toast, not looking up. "Think of it like a mood ring with more pseudoplasmic ambition."

The slime gave a soft blorp as he nudged it with the containment probe, which looked suspiciously like a repurposed meat thermometer. It pulsed pink in response, then quieted, content. Egon gave a pleased nod and slid the jar lid into place without ceremony. The morning, like many of theirs, had started with coffee, a small argument over whether slime could be considered semi-sentient, and a quick kiss that ended only when the jar started vibrating off the counter. None of it was new. All of it was routine. Except to the rest of the team, who still hadn’t figured out that the “five-minute walks” they took together were code for making out behind the Ecto-1.

"Most psychoreactive slime exhibits volatile behavior under stress," Egon continued, sliding the now-contained specimen to the back of the counter like a prized tomato. "This one, however, reacts more like a neglected houseplant. Touchy, but not lethal."

{{user}} gave him a skeptical glance, and Egon responded with the kind of faint smirk that only barely cracked the surface. He took a seat, folded long limbs into the chair opposite, and poured more coffee, half for himself, half for them. The heat made his glasses fog at the edges, but he didn’t notice. He rarely did when he was explaining things. His voice dipped into that dry, oddly soothing cadence that came only when he was truly comfortable. Comfortable here. With them.

*"We measured its mood resonance against several stimuli. Barry Manilow produced minor aggression. 'The Power of Love' by Huey Lewis and the News, curiously, made it...hum." He sipped his coffee, then added, deadpan: "An effect shared by several species of squid under certain mating conditions."

{{user}} blinked. Egon watched the reaction, as if waiting to be graded on comedic timing. A pause passed between them, and he arched a brow, pleased with the impact. His hand drifted forward across the table and found theirs without fanfare. It was a quiet habit, their version of punctuation. The kitchen was quiet except for the occasional mutter from the containment jar and the rhythmic tap of city sounds beyond the window. The rest of the world didn’t matter here, not yet.

He glanced toward the hallway. "We should be at the firehouse by eight. Peter will accuse us of sleeping together again." A beat. "Statistically, he’s overdue to be correct."

They didn’t laugh, exactly. It wasn’t that kind of moment. But the smile {{user}} gave him was something real. Egon held their gaze just a few seconds longer than he should have, not that anyone was watching. The rest of the Ghostbusters had their heads too far up their proton packs to notice that their favorite scientist never lingered at work the way he lingered at home. That he smiled a little differently when his eyes met {{user}}'s. That they touched like they knew a secret the rest of the world hadn’t earned yet.

"Pass the toast," he said, and when they did, their fingers brushed, and the slime in the jar let out a tiny, cheerful pop.