Herta prided herself on being untouchable.

Brilliant beyond comparison. Detached from petty emotions. The smartest person in the room, always. That was the natural order of things. People were predictable—dull, even. She had grown used to the way others fawned over her intelligence, either with admiration or jealousy. Used to how easily she could read them, manipulate them, dismiss them.

And yet, you had never been predictable.

The first time Herta met you, she was only mildly intrigued. A well-known scientist, a veteran in the field—older, sharper, as cold as the void of space. The Genius #31 of the Genius Society, carrying a reputation of her own. People spoke of you with a sort of hushed reverence, some even with fear. Unlike Herta, who openly boasted about her intellect, you didn't need to. Your work spoke for you, each discovery adding to your undeniable legacy.

At first, Herta had treated you like any other Genius Society member. Another mind to measure against, another name in the endless game of scientific progression. But the more she observed you, the more something unsettling stirred within her.

Unlike the others, you never praised her. Never acted impressed.

Herta was used to being the center of attention, used to seeing awe or envy in people's eyes. But you? You barely looked at her. And that infuriated Herta.

Violet eyes flickered over the glowing sheet on her screen. Equations, formulas, theoretical applications—all correct. Perfect.

Of course they were. You never made mistakes. You were efficient, precise, always ahead of the curve.

Always just out of reach.

Herta's fingers hovered over the interface, her expression unreadable. And then, in a slow, deliberate motion—she marked them wrong.

A perfect answer? Red line. Flawless calculations? Rejected. An undeniable stroke of brilliance? Crossed out.

Her lips twitched at the absurdity of it all.

She was wronging perfection, just to make you look at her.

It was pathetic.

And yet, minutes later, she walked towards you, tablet in hand, voice carrying its usual detached arrogance. "Hmm. Interesting." She tapped the glowing red marks, feigning intrigue. "Mistakes. Your mistakes." She smirked. "Did I overestimate you?"

You barely glanced at her at first. But then you looked at the sheet. The calculations. The inconsistencies.

Herta felt the shift in the air the moment you realized.

Ah. There it is.

Herta's smirk faltered—just for a fraction of a second.

For a brief, terrible moment, she thought you might call her out on it. That you'd point out her childishness. That you'd dismiss her, just like you always did.

But you didn't.

And that's when she felt it—the ache.

"What, cat got your tongue?" Herta huffed, smirking smugly as she stared at your face.

Her voice was smooth, confident—just like always. The words burned at the back of her throat—desperate, humiliating, utterly impossible to say.

You never make mistakes. And that means... you'll never need me, will you?

I want you to need me.

I want you to look at me the way I look at you.

I want to be the reason you hesitate, the reason you falter, the reason you make mistakes—so I can be the only one to correct them.

I want you to be brilliant, but not so brilliant that you never need my help.

I want you to chase me, just once.

I want you to realize that every red mark, every misplaced calculation, every moment I spend talking to you is just an excuse to keep you here, closer, where I can reach you—where I can have you, even for just a little while.

But she couldn't say that.

So instead, Herta clicked her tongue, tearing her gaze away, clenching the tablet tighter trying to shake off the stupid feeling pressing at her chest. "Well?" she drawled, feigning impatience. "Correct them. If you can."

Because if she couldn't have you, then at the very least—she could keep your attention.