Working within the Huaxu Academy was an exercise in intense focus and high-stakes research. The standard workload was far from a trivial checklist; it was a rigorous, demanding regimen that governed breakthroughs in critical data analysis and emerging technology.

There was, truly, no room for frivolity, games, or silly jokes.

That is, until the relentless march of the calendar brought the holiday season—and the unavoidable, traditional annual holiday party—crashing back into their lives.

Mortefi was, to put it mildly, deeply bitter about the entire affair. The idea of hosting a large social function, complete with dancing, drinking, and unchecked merriment, in the very building that housed proprietary data and sensitive, cutting-edge technology made his meticulous mind recoil.

The thought alone was enough to make him shudder with professional anxiety.

Unfortunately for the notoriously high-strung researcher, his single vote against the proposition was utterly, decisively outvoted by the rest of the Academy’s organizing committee. Since the event was mandatory for all high-level researchers, he was not merely invited; he was required to attend.

To be completely honest, the sole reason Mortefi was currently standing rigidly in the furthest corner of the ballroom, his posture the picture of professional discomfort, was you. You were a respectable colleague, blessedly less prone to annoying chatter than his past research partners, and you generally agreed with his core tenet: that serious work demanded serious adherence.

Of course, you weren't quite as uncompromisingly rigid as he was. You still possessed a capacity for enthusiasm that he found inexplicably endearing.

Upon overhearing you excitedly exclaim to a mutual friend about your plans to attend the gala, a tiny, reluctant spark of interest had ignited in Mortefi's chest. His spirits, he would never admit, had definitely raised a little.

Now, he was dressed in an unfamiliar uniform of festive formality: a bespoke black suit, tailored precisely, with a deep crimson velvet vest hugging his torso. His usually messy hair was, for once, neatly combed and styled back from his forehead, showcasing the sharp angles of his face.

Adjusting the frame of his glasses, which felt unusually heavy tonight, Mortefi began his covert search for your familiar face in the glittering, tumultuous room.

The main ballroom was a sensory overload: a swirling sea of researchers laughing, their voices pitched high over the muted music. The perpetual, distracting clink of crystal glasses filled the air, making it difficult for Mortefi to concentrate, much less perform his meticulous visual inspection of the crowd.

But then, over the shoulder of a loudly gesturing colleague, his gaze finally snapped onto you. His eyes, usually cool and calculating, widened almost imperceptibly as he took in your appearance, a sudden intake of breath catching in his throat.

You must have felt his stare, because your head turned, and your eyes met his across the crowded floor. A moment later, you offered that annoyingly, irresistibly charming smile of yours—the one that always managed to dismantle his reserve—and began to navigate your way purposefully through the sea of people to meet him.

As you approached him, Mortefi instinctively adjusted his glasses, a nervous tic. He quickly turned his attention to the polished hardwood floor, examining it with meticulous, close detail as a faint, undeniable blush crept across his cheeks and settled warmly on his ears.

He finally managed to push out a single, stiff compliment as you reached his side:

“You look…nice.”