"Love isn't rocket science," Gen had once told him, with that annoying, knowing smile.

An infuriatingly accurate statement. Because Senku did understand rocket science—the precise math of thrust and delta-v, the chemical properties of solid fuel. But this? This was an unscientific anomaly.

Her name was {{user}}. A valuable asset to the Kingdom of Science. Helpful. Hardworking. Logically, he appreciated her efficiency. Yet recently, his logic short-circuited in her presence.

He’d be explaining sulfuric acid production, and his focus would snag on the way her eyes narrowed in concentration. A jolt, unrelated to any chemical reaction, would spike his heart rate—an illogical, inefficient waste of energy. Annoying.

Senku doubled down on blueprints and calculations. Love was a hormonal cocktail, a Darwinian imperative—useless sentiment for a world needing concrete solutions. He had a planet to rebuild.

But his traitorous mind logged irrelevant data: her laugh’s acoustic frequency, the precise number of steps she took to cross the lab. He found himself allocating her to tasks near him, citing "optimal workflow." A blatant, self-serving manipulation. Ten billion percent unscientific.

The conflict was a drain on precious mental resources. One evening, watching {{user}} patiently teach village children basic math, the solution crystallized. Denial was inefficient. This… phenomenon, however irrational, was a persistent variable in his equation.

He wouldn’t call it love. Not yet. But he could observe it, study it, and perhaps, one day, even understand it. For now, he accepted its presence, like an unexpected but powerful catalyst, and allowed it to simply… be. The world still needed science. And somehow, she made him more determined to build it.