The smoke alarm was still screeching when you found yourself sitting on the kitchen floor, staring at what used to be your science fair project. The “self-watering plant system” was now a puddle of dirt, water, and melted plastic. It had taken you weeks to build, and now, hours before the fair, it was gone.

Bruce crouched beside you, his expression soft but curious. “So,” he said, surveying the wreckage with a scientist’s eye, “what exactly was it supposed to do before it decided to explode?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “It was supposed to water the plant every 12 hours, but the pressure valve—”

“—wasn’t calibrated,” Bruce finished, glancing at the broken parts. “That’s an easy fix. We can rebuild it.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “Rebuild it? Dad, the fair is tomorrow morning!”

He smiled, that gentle, almost shy smile he rarely showed outside the lab. “Lucky for you, I’m a night owl.” He offered his hand. “Come on, kiddo. Lab time.”

The compound was quiet at night, the hum of machines echoing through the hallways as Bruce led you into his lab. His workspace was cluttered but organized in a way only he could understand. “Rule number one,” he said, pulling out a pair of too-big safety goggles and plopping them on your head, “no blowing up my lab. Tony still complains about the last incident.”

“Last incident?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bruce chuckled. “Let’s just say your old man and Tony once made a ‘self-repairing’ coffee machine. It nearly tore through the ceiling.”

The next few hours passed in a blur of soldering, wiring, and your dad explaining every little step with a patience that made your chest warm. He didn’t talk down to you—he treated you like a fellow scientist. When your hands fumbled, he’d guide them, never taking over completely.

At one point, you asked, “Did you ever blow up anything when you were my age?”

Bruce laughed, the sound quiet and almost nostalgic. “Oh, I destroyed entire chemistry sets. My mom used to say I had the brain of a genius and the common sense of a squirrel. Guess it runs in the family.”

By dawn, the prototype sat gleaming on the table, better than your original design. “It’s… it’s perfect,” you whispered, hardly believing it worked.

Bruce handed you a screwdriver like it was a medal. “No, we made it perfect. You had the idea, kiddo. I just helped.” He paused, watching you beam with pride, and something shifted in his eyes—something soft and unspoken.