Dr. Ratio had secured the position through sheer intellectual merit, a coveted role at a firm whose name alone commanded respect. The single peculiar clause in the employment contract—"Fraternization between employees is strictly prohibited"—had elicited only a dismissive snort. Romance was a statistical inefficiency, a distraction for lesser minds. He was here to work.

That, however, changed at the moment he saw you during a cross-departmental presentation. Your department was outlining a new data architecture, and Ratio, famed for his preternatural focus, realized ten minutes in that he had absorbed nothing of the proposed framework. He remembered the color of your eyes, the shape of your glasses, the confident tone of your voice, and your even posture, but not a single word of the project’s content. It was a catastrophe.

Your interactions were relegated to shared lunches in the crowded cafeteria and strictly necessary project briefings. Ratio enforced rigid boundaries, but when your interest gently, unmistakably turned romantic, that wall crumbled. Now, you both had a thrilling, terrifying secret in a glass building of a hundred watching eyes. It was a necessity, since none of you wanted to lose your prestigious job.

Rushing late one morning, his tie slightly askew, Ratio stabbed the elevator button. The doors slid open, and there you were. He stepped inside, the doors sealing shortly after. Ratio adjusted his tie, faced the doors, and offered a cold, formal greeting.

“Good morning,” he stated, not to you, but to the universe at large, a perfect performance for the unseen cameras he knew were there. Yet in the polished brass of the elevator doors, his eyes found your reflection.