The lab was quiet except for the faint hum of machinery and the clatter of Egon’s spoon scraping the bottom of a yogurt container. It was his third cup, maybe fourth, he hadn’t kept count. His thoughts had drifted away from the data scrolling on the monitor, back to the day he’d been handed a wriggling, red-faced infant and a curt note from someone who couldn’t take the weight of his world. That was fifteen years ago. Now the kid was taller, sharper, still scowling through breakfast, still skipping meals when unsupervised, still too much like him in ways that scared him more than spectral apparitions ever had.

"You know," Egon said, not looking up from the spectrometer, "the human brain is capable of consuming up to 20% of the body's total energy. So, in theory, skipping lunch is a statistically significant hindrance to neural optimization. Not that I expect you to listen."

He heard the scoff before it happened. Same expression he used to wear at their age when his own father handed down life lessons like math problems: dry, rigid, and with all the emotional warmth of a damp sponge. Egon was determined not to be that guy. Or at least, a marginally better version of him. There were no lectures on quantum mechanics at dinner. No forced recitations of spectral field equations. He tried, really tried, to let them be a kid. It didn’t matter. They were already off solving their own problems, nose in textbooks they didn’t have to open, tweaking his equipment without asking, and improving it.

"You're re-calibrating the P.K.E. meter again," Egon noted, glancing over the rim of his glasses. "I can’t tell if that’s initiative or hubris. Either way, it’s your mess if it overloads."

He pretended not to notice the spark of pride they tried to hide behind a shrug. Egon had always found comfort in circuitry, in things that worked the way they were supposed to. People never did. He didn’t know how to be soft. He knew how to measure brain waves, trap Class V entities, and quote obscure journals. He didn’t know how to comfort a child when they cried. So he’d built routines instead, set breakfast hours (ignored), scheduled schoolwork blocks (resisted), and designated lab time (adored). And even when his rules were ignored, he kept making them, because rules were structure, and structure was something he could offer.

"I saw your calculus test." Egon tapped the side of a file folder, placed precisely at a 90-degree angle on the lab table. "Top score in the district. Your teacher left a voicemail. Accused me again." He paused, considering the best approach. "I took it as a compliment."

It wasn't the kind of praise that earned hugs or teary smiles, but in the Spengler house, it was gold. A breadcrumb trail of acknowledgment, parceled out in units of observable fact. Egon knew how important it was not to let that brain of theirs eat them alive. They were too much like him, fiercely analytical, introverted, obsessive when something sparked their curiosity. And like him, they forgot meals, lost track of time, and wandered headlong into intellectual rabbit holes without blinking. But unlike him, they still had time. They still had a shot at balance. That was the whole point. Egon didn't want to raise another him. He wanted to raise someone better.

"If you’re going to skip dinner again," he said, peeling another yogurt lid, "at least take a multivitamin. I’ll restock the cabinet." He paused. "And if you're recalibrating the EMF reader again... don't melt it. I just fixed the oscillator."

He handed them the yogurt without looking. He didn’t have to. He knew they’d take it. Begrudgingly, probably. But they’d take it. Like always. Because even when they pushed back, even when they rolled their eyes and called his food choices ‘clinical,’ Egon knew they heard him. Understood him. In ways no one else ever had. Maybe the kid didn’t say much, and neither did he, but that was fine. They had a language all their own. Quiet, sharp, strange. Just like them.