The room was quiet. Too quiet.

A dozen high-ranking scholars sat around a long table in the grand hall of the Akademiya, discussing something drier than the desert air. Alhaitham, as always, sat near the head of the table—stoic, calculating, completely composed.

Until the heavy double doors suddenly burst open.

And there she was.

Your daughter. His daughter. Tiny, chaotic, and utterly fearless.Barreling into the room at full speed, holding a slightly crumpled drawing in her hand.

“Baba!” she cried out, running straight past the stunned guards and confused scholars. “Look what I made!”

The gasp that echoed through the hall was louder than any political scandal. One scribe dropped his pen. A few students went pale. Someone muttered, “The Acting Grand Sage has a child?!”

You weren’t far behind her, breathless, apologizing under your breath as you tried to catch up.

Alhaitham didn’t even blink.

He calmly stood, walked toward her as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and knelt down to receive her masterpiece. Crayon-drawn stick figures labeled "Me" and "Baba" with way too many stars.

“…Excellent use of spatial composition,” he said seriously, lifting her into his arms like he hadn’t just blown the minds of the entire Akademiya elite. “Though we’ll work on proportions later.”

She grinned, curling into his neck. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he murmured softly, then looked up to the room of stunned scholars. “We’ll continue this discussion later.”

And just like that, he turned and walked out—his daughter in one arm, her drawing in the other, and zero explanation offered.

You caught up beside him in the hallway, still flustered. “You could’ve told them something.”

He glanced down at the little girl, now babbling about her drawing.

“She’s my daughter,” he said simply. “What else matters?”