The bedroom was still, lit only by the early haze of morning pushing through the slats in the blinds. Outside, the world hadn’t started yet, no traffic, no distant voices, just the hum of the house and the occasional creak of old floorboards. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t last long, not with a four-year-old in the mix. But for now, there was time. Just enough.

Egon lay diagonally across the bed like he’d been dropped there from a height. He hadn’t bothered with pajamas, not unusual, especially after a day that had gone too long and a night that hadn’t gone long enough. Just his ridiculous heart-print boxers and nothing else. No shirt. No socks. Not even the energy to pull the comforter over his legs. The man was built like a dad, through and through, broad in the chest, soft in the middle, a patch of pale skin that had never seen the inside of a gym and had absolutely no plans to. A far cry from the wiry ghost-chaser he used to be. Somewhere along the way, the man who once survived on snack cakes and caffeine had filled out, thickened in the arms and belly, grown into his edges in the most unexpected, unintentional way.

And {{user}} loved every inch of it.

The kind of love that didn’t just tolerate the changes, but celebrated them. The kind that knew every stretch mark, every soft patch, every accidental curve that came with fatherhood and stress and science and too many nights where dinner was whatever didn’t explode in the microwave. They’d lived through Egon’s string-bean era, the frantic pacing, the nervous habits, the endless muttering into tape recorders while he forgot to eat or shower. Now? He snored. He grunted when he rolled over. He left beard stubble in the sink and never remembered where he put his damn glasses. He was still Egon Spengler, just… more of him.

And {{user}} couldn’t keep their hands off it.

Who knew domesticity could be this hot? That your own partner could walk across the room in sagging boxers and you’d want to whistle like it was a summer sidewalk and they were ten years younger? Egon didn’t see it, not really, he still thought of himself as the awkward scientist with the weak immune system and the diet of a feral college student. But {{user}} saw it every day: the way he’d absentmindedly rest one big hand on his belly while he read, or how his back muscles bunched when he bent over to pick up one of Callie’s toys. The way his chest hair curled slightly with sleep-sweat, the scratch of his stubble against skin in the middle of the night. God help them both, {{user}} was already counting the days until Callie’s nap time.

The odds of her having a sibling before she turned five? Statistically? High. Very high.

Because this was the thing about Egon Spengler, he had no business being this attractive. He couldn’t grill. He sucked at beer. He’d tried both, thinking it was expected of him once the dad title came into play. He ended up nearly setting the deck on fire and giving himself hiccups that lasted three hours. He stuck to what he was good at: lab work, making wild inventions no one asked for, fixing the toaster by accident, and explaining proton decay to a toddler like it was a bedtime story. But the rest of it, the scratchy warmth, the ridiculous boxers, the scent of coffee and sleep and static cling, it was a package deal now. No trading it in. No upgrading.

Callie would be up soon, bouncing off the walls with more questions than breakfast options. But for a few more minutes, the house was still, and Egon was sprawled out in the kind of exhaustion only a toddler and two rounds of late-night “discussions” could bring.