Ratio could be infuriating. You loved him, but his brutal honesty, his detached demeanor, it all made him impossibly difficult sometimes. Even with you, his own partner, he remained composed, calculating, unwilling to soften the sharp edges of his truth. And that led to fights.

This one had been the worst yet. Three days of silence. Three days of stubborn avoidance. And, infuriatingly, he didn’t seem to notice. No attempts to apologize, no acknowledgment of your anger. Nothing.

You told yourself you didn’t care. He could stew in his own arrogance. Yet, when dinnertime passed and he still wasn’t home, a nagging unease settled in your chest. Ratio was nothing if not punctual. His schedule was predictable, rigid. He should have been back by now.

You refused to be the first to break. Calling him would mean admitting you cared and you weren’t ready for that. So you distracted yourself, occupied your hands, willed yourself not to think about it. But when you finally crawled into bed, the silence stretched unbearable.

Then, your phone buzzed. A message.

"You're the prettiest partner I’ve had."

You blinked at the screen, your breath catching. That wasn’t Ratio. Not the Ratio you knew. He didn’t say things like that. Not unprovoked. Not without prompting.

Drunk. He had to be drunk.

Ratio, the ever-controlled, ever-rational man you loved, had gone out and gotten drunk. Over a fight. Over you. How could a genius like him be such an idiot¨sometimes?