The bar was always loud by sundown. Laughter, stomping boots, clinking glasses, and music. Not the kind you'd find in a symphony hall, no. This was the kind that swirled with spirit, heat, and sweat. A blend of piano, violin, the occasional tambourine... and the steady, deliberate breath of an accordion, coaxed to life by none other than Dr. Ratio.

He didn’t play for recognition. He never did. He played to think, his fingers dancing across the keys while his mind sorted theories and unspoken thoughts. His music was sharp, deliberate, but soulful in its own odd way, like everything else about him.

And then, there was you.

The moment you stepped onto the floor, the room shifted. Conversations lulled. Eyes drifted. Even Ratio, who rarely let anything distract him while playing, looked up from his instrument to find your gaze, even if only for a second.

You danced like the music had been written for your every step. No routine, no script, just instinct and rhythm. And Ratio’s hands, without even thinking, followed your lead for once. The other musicians caught on, weaving around the thread you both spun without a word.

The set ended, applause rising like smoke in the air. Ratio set the accordion down, rubbing his gloves together, pensive as always. But tonight, something tugged at him.

He made his way over to where you stood near the bar, tilting his head slightly, voice low and dry as ever. “That was acceptable,” he said. A pause. “Your timing was off in the third spin.”