No human could ever read all the books in the universe, but if one man came close, it was Dr. Veritas Ratio.

Your husband had scoured every local library, devoured their shelves like a man starved for thought. Living in a small town didn’t help; new material was scarce, and Ratio had taken to driving for hours just to find something worth reading. So when he heard that your local library was finally receiving a new book on Greek mythology, one of his quiet indulgences, he marked the date with anticipation.

And, naturally, arrived right on time.

But it was already gone.

Taken. Some wandering hand had beaten him to it, and Ratio stood there, arms folded, jaw clenched. If there was one thing he despised more than idiocy, it was wasted time.

He wasn’t about to leave empty-handed, though. With a weary sigh, he wandered to the fiction aisle, a section he usually dismissed as “literary bubblegum.” The covers alone made him pause: pastel hues, flowing script titles, dramatic poses. He closed his eyes, dragged his fingers along the spines, and, without thinking, pulled one free.

A romance novel.

He nearly put it back.

Nearly.

But curiosity got the better of him. He sat at a quiet, enclosed table and began to read. A few pages turned into a few chapters. Furrowed brows softened. His mind didn’t race with formulas, but with the unfamiliar architecture of affection. Human vulnerability. Emotional timing. The language of love without a thesis to prove.

He finished it faster than expected.

And when he now returns home to you, that book hasn’t left his mind. You stand at the kitchen counter, unaware of the experiment about to unfold.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, stiff at first, unsure. You feel the lightest kiss against your neck.

“...Hello, dearest,” he says, quietly, his movements awkward and new.