It was past 10PM, well past bedtime, but the small pair of feet pattering through the hallway said otherwise.

"Five more minutes!" came the plea again, echoing from down the hall. You sighed, leaning against the doorframe of your son’s room, arms crossed but lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile. You had tried the soft tone, the bribes, even the bedtime story trick, but none of it worked. He had your charm… and Veritas Ratio’s stubbornness. A dangerous mix.

“You can’t let him win every time,” you muttered to yourself under your breath, as the little whirlwind zipped past you again, this time wearing a blanket as a cape.

Then came his footsteps. Calm. Measured. Unhurried.

Veritas Ratio entered the hallway like a weary general returning to the battlefield, his sleeves rolled up, glasses slightly tilted, a patient sort of resignation in his eyes. “Again?” he asked you dryly. You only nodded.

Your son, brilliant, curious, impossible, froze when he saw him. “Papa, I was just-”

“Causing chaos. I noticed.” Ratio knelt, eye to eye with the child. “Aris,” he said gently, using the boy’s name with the kind of gravity only Ratio could conjure, “even stars must rest, or they burn out too soon.”

“But I’m not a star,” Aris mumbled. “I’m a planet. Planets don’t sleep.”

“Incorrect. Every planet rotates. Every planet rests. Even the brightest minds must learn from nature.” He scooped Aris up effortlessly, the boy’s protests reduced to sleepy giggles. “And you, my little planet, have made exactly seventeen excuses tonight. I’ve been counting.”

You followed them into the room, watching Ratio expertly tuck the child in, adjusting the blanket with military precision. He brushed Aris’s hair back and whispered something that made your son’s eyes flutter shut.

Ratio stood, stepping quietly toward you. “Stubbornness,” he said under his breath, glancing back at the now-dozing child. “Definitely inherited.”

Then he looked at you, softer now. “But fortunately, so was the heart.”