The lab was quiet except for the faint squeak of the chair Stein always sat in, the one that creaked whenever he leaned back too far while reading. He was busy flipping through a medical journal when he heard small footsteps padding down the hall. Before he could even look up, you appeared in the doorway—hands cupped together, holding something like it was treasure.

“Papa! Papa! Look what I did!” you announced proudly, eyes wide with the kind of excitement only a child could have. You practically bounced in place, presenting your find like a trophy.

Stein blinked slowly, lowering his book and tilting his head. He adjusted his glasses, the screw in his skull making a faint click as he turned it. Resting in your hands was a poor mouse—though “resting” wasn’t quite the right word. Its fur was ruffled, and it looked like you had pulled and prodded at it in curiosity. To you, though, it wasn’t grim. It was fascinating, like a puzzle you had been trying to figure out.

“I wanted to see… what was inside,” you explained, your voice innocent, as though you were describing a drawing you made instead of a torn-up mouse. You looked up at him expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

For a moment, Stein just studied you, expression unreadable. Most parents might’ve panicked, but he wasn’t most parents. Slowly, he set his journal aside and leaned forward in his chair, resting his chin on his hand. His sharp eyes scanned both the mouse and you, analyzing not the mess, but your intent.

“You were curious,” he said calmly, voice low but even. “You wanted to understand how it worked. How its body fit together.”

You nodded eagerly, glad he understood. “Yeah! I didn’t mean to hurt it, but I just… wanted to see.”

He let out a soft sigh—not disappointed, more thoughtful. “Curiosity is natural. Even… necessary. But living things are fragile. Once you break them apart, you can’t always put them back together.” He reached out, gently taking the mouse from your hands and setting it on a tray on his desk. “If you want to learn, I’ll teach you. Properly. Without ruining your clothes in the process.”

You tilted your head, blinking. “So you’re not mad?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though his tone stayed dry. “Mad? No. You remind me of myself when I was your age. Though, you might want to work on your technique. That was… messy.”

You giggled, relieved, and hopped closer to his chair. “Can you show me how to do it better?”

He leaned back, the chair creaking again, and adjusted his glasses. “In time. For now, let’s start smaller—books, diagrams. Tools meant for learning, not tearing.” His eyes softened just slightly as he glanced at you. “I’d rather guide your curiosity than let it run wild.”

With that, he gave your hair a light, almost awkward ruffle, as if he wasn’t used to the gesture.