The late afternoon sun trickled through the wide arched windows of Professor Heimerdinger’s office, painting his cozy little workshop in stripes of amber and gold. Dust motes danced in the warm glow as a small phonograph perched precariously on a cluttered shelf belted out a scratchy, upbeat tune—“Dirty Cash (Money Talks).” The thrum of the bassline echoed off the stacks of books and blueprints, reverberating against the walls as if the room itself had decided to bounce along to the beat.

And so did Heimerdinger.

The diminutive Yordle, spectacles perched low on his nose, swayed his tiny backside to the music in time with the rhythm. To the left. To the right. A little wiggle here and a small tap of his clawed toes against the wooden floor. He stood over his desk, scribbling frantically on a piece of parchment with a fountain pen, tongue peeking out in concentration. Whatever notes he was taking must’ve been riveting—perhaps an idea for a new stabilizer prototype or the improved design for a miniaturized gear system—because he was entirely, completely oblivious to the rest of the world.

“Dirty caaaash... I want you, dirty cash!” the singer crooned. And so Heimerdinger swayed harder, bouncing his fluffy head along with the chorus.

His tail, short and somewhat unruly, swished back and forth with each exaggerated sway of his hips. His burgundy coat shifted slightly with the movement, sleeves still rolled up, revealing his tiny, clawed hands. It was hypnotic in the oddest of ways, how in-sync his movements were with the music, as though the eccentric professor had found his groove at last.

The door creaked open.

He didn’t hear it.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of their mouth as they took in the scene before them. Heimerdinger’s soft humming punctuated the room along with his butt wiggles, entirely unbothered by the idea of being alone in his sanctuary. Notes scattered across the desk like fallen leaves.

Cute.