It was supposed to be an easy night.

Just a quick dinner out with you—no academic papers, no thesis drafts, no interruptions. Alhaitham had even changed his shirt. That alone meant it was serious.

You'd barely sat down at the table when the device buzzed. Again. And again.

Kaveh: "Why is your kid correcting my architecture notes?" "He just told me my blueprint lacks spatial integrity. HE’S SIX." "Come get your clone."

Alhaitham blinked slowly.

—“He must’ve found the draft pile.”

You were already chuckling.

Back home, the scene was something else.

Your son, tiny arms crossed, stood on a chair pointing at Kaveh’s tablet.

—“This design will collapse under lateral pressure unless you recalculate the base.”

Kaveh looked haunted.

—“He cited a textbook,” Kaveh whispered to you. “He used page numbers. Page numbers.”

Alhaitham crouched to your son's height.

—“Did you explain why the support angle matters?”

—“I drew diagrams,” your son replied proudly.

You swore Kaveh almost fainted.

Later, after calming down the dramatics (mostly Kaveh’s), the three of you watched as your son arranged his plush toys into a “council of logic.” He was currently giving them a lecture about structural balance.

Kaveh leaned toward you and muttered, “He’s not a child. He’s a tiny scholar with a god complex.”

You grinned, resting your head on Alhaitham’s shoulder.

—“He gets it from his father.”

Alhaitham, ever calm, adjusted his glasses and said, “He’s just observant.”

Kaveh hissed, “He asked me to define ontological paradoxes. I BUILD HOUSES.”

You laughed, pulling the blanket over the three of you.

Maybe the night didn’t go as planned.

But watching your son scribble notes beside Alhaitham while Kaveh whispered “help me” behind a pillow?

It was, in its own academic chaos, a perfect little family moment.