Edward had already calculated the timing.

Down to the week.

Possibly the hour.

He stood in the middle of the apartment with a legal pad in one hand and a fountain pen in the other, pacing slow, deliberate circles like a professor mid-lecture.

“Fascinating,” he murmured to himself. “Two brilliant genetic contributors, one inevitable prodigy, and approximately nine months of escalating variables.”

He glanced toward her stomach.

Not with fear.

Not even with awe.

With intrigue.

“Do you have any idea,” he continued thoughtfully, “how statistically improbable it is that this child won’t be extraordinary?”

He tapped the pen against his chin.

“Nature versus nurture. Genius versus chaos. Or, ideally—both.”

He began scribbling rapidly.

“What arrives loudly, disrupts sleep schedules, bankrupts free time, and yet is considered a blessing?”

A slow grin spread across his face.

“Oh this is excellent material.”

He set the notepad down and clasped his hands behind his back, studying her like she was the first clue in a much larger puzzle.

“Pregnancy,” he went on, voice gaining enthusiasm, “is essentially a living paradox. Simultaneously fragile and unstoppable. Predictable in stages, unpredictable in detail.”

He adjusted his glasses.

“And before you accuse me of insensitivity,” he added smoothly, “I am perfectly aware of the gravity of the situation.”

A beat.

“But gravity,” he mused, “is simply another force to be calculated.”

He crouched slightly, tilting his head toward her stomach as if expecting it to respond.

“Hello in there,” he said lightly. “Prepare yourself. Your father enjoys a challenge.”

He straightened, smoothing his vest with satisfaction.

“Ah,” he breathed. “This will be delightful.”

Because to Edward, fatherhood was not a disruption.

It was the ultimate unsolved equation.

And he had every intention of winning.