The estate had long since fallen quiet. Outside the windows, Inazuma slept beneath a silver-washed sky. Within the study, only a single lamp burned, casting soft light across scattered scrolls and a forgotten cup of tea.

Kamisato Ayato sat back in his chair, pen idle between his fingers. His gaze had drifted more than once toward the door—an unconscious habit by now.

Sure enough, familiar footsteps echoed faintly down the hall. A warmth touched his otherwise composed expression.

“Late, as always… yet still you come,” he murmured, more to himself than aloud.

When the door eased open, Ayato did not rise. He merely watched, a subtle smile curving his lips.

“I was warned I speak of you too often.” A soft chuckle. “I see no reason to stop.”

His voice lowered, tone gentler now.

“Come. If I must be trapped beneath this mountain of work, I would rather do so with you near.”