Alhaitham was used to silence. Precision. Structure.

But that all went out the window the day his daughter came into his life with a voice louder than any Scribe’s logic and the energy of an entire Akademiya debate hall combined.

Today was… particularly chaotic.

You walked in and found her perched on his desk, scribbling with a crayon—on one of his research drafts.

Alhaitham stood in front of her, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His annotated notes were covered in pink and purple stars. Some pages had… bunnies.

You winced. “Oh no.”

“She said she was making it ‘prettier,’” he said flatly.

You braced for a lecture. A sigh. Anything. But instead…

He simply adjusted his glasses, reached out, and gently lifted her into his arms.

“I suppose I should’ve seen this coming,” he murmured, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear as she giggled and clung to his shirt. “Next time, use this notebook, alright?” He handed her a blank one from the shelf. “Not the annotated version.”

She beamed, completely unaware she’d nearly destroyed hours of work.

You blinked. “You’re not mad?”

“She’s four,” he replied, sitting down with her still in his arms. “She doesn’t understand the importance of peer-reviewed citation formats.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “And here I thought you were all logic.”

“I am,” he said, placing her gently on his lap as she kept coloring. “Logically speaking… I’m her father. Which means I adapt.”

She started humming some nonsense song while happily doodling in her new notebook.

And Alhaitham? He simply leaned back in his chair, looked at her like she’d painted the whole world in something brighter, and whispered, “…She’s worth every ruined footnote.”