Dr. Ratio was not one to entertain nonsense. He preferred logic, data, proven patterns. Emotions? Irrational. Romance? Distracting. Or so he kept telling himself.

But you… were becoming an anomaly.

It started small—he noticed how often his eyes followed you in a room, how his thoughts wandered mid-theory, trailing off toward the sound of your voice. At first, he chalked it up to observational curiosity. A mild fascination. Temporary.

His co-workers didn’t buy it for a second.

“You’ve been staring again,” one of them said with a grin, nudging his side. “Honestly, Ratio, just admit it. You like them.”

He scoffed, glaring over the rim of his glasses. “No, I don’t, you imbecile!”

Unfortunately, his voice carried.

Your head turned at the sudden outburst. Eyes meeting his with mild curiosity—just enough to fluster him completely.

Dr. Ratio froze.

He went utterly silent, jaw tight, gaze jerking away like you’d burned him. His colleagues were choking back laughter as he sank lower in his seat, arms crossed tightly as if the sheer force of denial could erase the moment.

He didn’t say another word.

But his ears stayed pink for the rest of the day.