Recently, an optometrist prescribed you to wear glasses, and Ratio had been observing you intently since then.

Not in the way one might casually glance at a partner—no, his attention was deliberate, analytical. He noticed the subtle crease between your brows, the way your fingers kept lifting to adjust the frames of your glasses, only to sigh and turn away from the mirror. Again. And again.

It was irrational, of course. He could list a dozen reasons why your concerns were unfounded: the glasses suited your face structure; they enhanced, rather than obscured, your features; their practicality far outweighed any fleeting aesthetic doubts. The glasses were functional. They corrected your vision, and thus, by definition, they were good. But he knew better than to say that outright. You didn’t need logic right now. You needed something else—something softer, though the very concept made him inwardly grimace.

He waited until you paused in front of the mirror one more time, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, without looking up from his book, he spoke.

"Don’t worry about it. The glasses," he clarified, finally meeting your gaze. "They make you look smarter. And I like smart women."