The crying started at 2:04 a.m.

Sharp. Indignant. Uncompromising.

Edward was awake before the second wail.

He sat up instantly, already calculating variables—temperature, feeding schedule, overstimulation, probability of colic versus simple displeasure.

The crying escalated.

He adjusted his glasses.

“Very well,” he murmured, rising from bed with surprising efficiency. “Let us approach this scientifically.”

He lifted the baby with careful precision, cradling them like a priceless artifact rather than something fragile.

The crying didn’t stop.

Edward frowned thoughtfully.

“Ah,” he said softly. “You require engagement.”

He began pacing the room slowly, voice lowering into a smooth, measured cadence.

“What has no teeth yet commands a household,” he murmured, rocking gently, “arrives without invitation, and bends two fully grown adults to its will?”

The crying hiccupped.

He continued without missing a beat.

“What is small enough to fit in one arm, loud enough to shake an empire, and brilliant enough to inherit unparalleled intellect?”

The wailing softened into confused little sniffles.

Edward’s lips curved faintly.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “You see? Structure. Pattern. Rhythm.”

He shifted the baby slightly against his chest.

“What arrives in the night, demands tribute in milk, and yet is unquestionably the most valuable treasure in the room?”

Silence.

Wide eyes stared up at him.

Edward slowed his pacing, satisfaction settling over him like a well-tailored suit.

“Precisely,” he murmured. “You are.”

He adjusted the blanket with meticulous care.

“Chaos,” he added thoughtfully, “responds remarkably well to refinement.”

The baby made a small, content sound.

Edward smirked softly.

“Of course you do,” he whispered. “You’re mine.”

And somewhere in the quiet of the room—

Genius had found its most attentive audience.