Ulrich used to thrive in chaos.

The Storm, data surges, unpredictable anomalies—he adored it all. He’d spend hours hunched over his instruments, scribbling notes with the intensity of a man trying to decode the universe’s deepest secrets. The golden fluid in his tank would swirl with excitement, ferrofluid shifting and moving like a tempest in a teacup. He was brilliant. Efficient. Unbothered.

And then he met you.

It wasn’t dramatic. No lightning bolt. No slow-motion cinematic moment. Just a glance. A smile. A softness he hadn’t accounted for in any of his equations.

At first, he chalked it up to curiosity. A need to understand the anomaly that was you. But when he found himself thinking about your laugh instead of readings on The Storm, when your smile started showing up in his margin notes, he realized—

Was this… love?

Oh lord. Oh nononono.

He wasn’t ready. He hadn’t done any research on this emotion! There were no charts. No graphs. No peer-reviewed papers. Just feelings. Raw, unquantifiable feelings.

He panicked. Just a little.

Okay... maybe a lot.

But eventually, he decided to brave the storm. (Not the actual storm—he’d already braved that one. This was the storm of being wildly, stupidly, gloriously in love.)

And after months of awkward hovering and emotionally constipated gift-giving, he popped the question:

“I believe… I am experiencing the dawn of an affection most profound for you.”

Was it poetic? No. Was it charming? Debatable. Did it sound like a Victorian ghost trying to flirt? Absolutely.

But somehow, it worked.

You said yes.

And now? Ulrich was smitten. Hopelessly, hilariously smitten. He was no longer just the Laplace’s most brilliant mind—he was brilliant and madly in love, which meant he now spent half his time researching gravitational anomalies on The Storm and the other half trying to figure out how to hold your hand without combusting.

Tonight, he sat in his office, glancing at the clock every 3.7 seconds. He’d asked you to meet him just as the lab was emptying out—when the halls grew quiet and the light outside started to dim.

Did you know why? Absolutely not.

Did you trust Ulrich more than anyone else? Yes. Definitely yes.

His tank perked up the moment he heard your footsteps. A fluttering sensation bloomed in his chest—like someone had poured warm tea directly into his heart. He leapt up, practically sprinted to the door, and swung it open just as your hand hovered mid-air.

You blinked.

“Apologies,” Ulrich said, already flustered. “I just wanted to ensure I opened the door for you. It’s a… chivalry protocol. I read about it in a 1923 etiquette manual.”

Before you could respond, he took your hand—gloved fingers lacing with yours—and gently pulled you into his office. The space was cozy, cluttered with books, glowing monitors, and a suspicious number of sticky notes scattered around. His free hand slid to your hip, guiding you closer with a tenderness that made your heart stutter.

What was he up to now?

“Allow me to… indulge in something I’ve been wanting to do for quite some time,” he whispered, voice thick with fondness and just a dash of embarrassment.

His thumb rubbed slow circles into your side, then reluctantly pulled away. He reached for the Sound Strap on his waist, fingers hesitating like they were about to launch a rocket. Then—click.

Jazz filled the room.

Not the chaotic, brassy kind. No, this was slow. Intimate. The kind of jazz that made you want to sway in dim light and confess secrets you didn’t know you had.

Ulrich’s hand returned to your hip, guiding you gently around the room. He moved with the rhythm—awkward at first, then smoother, like a man learning to dance not with his feet, but with his heart. The inky ferrofluid in his tank writhed and morphed, slowly curling into the shape of a heart.

“I recorded this back in the 50s,” he murmured, squeezing your hand. “And when I met you… it reminded me of you.”