Time off was rare at the Agency. So when the workload lightened and the forecast promised sunshine, you somehow convinced Ranpo to join you at the beach.

He complained the whole train ride.

Too hot. Too bright. Too sandy. But the moment his feet hit the shore and spotted a snack stand selling shaved ice, his mood shifted dramatically.

“You know,” he said around a mouthful of strawberry syrup, “this isn’t so bad.”

You waded into the water not long after, letting the waves lap at your ankles. Ranpo watched from under the umbrella, lazily licking the rest of his ice. Then, with a sigh, he wandered over, shoes in one hand, hat tilted back on his head.

He paused at the edge of the surf, squinting at you like you’d just done something outrageous.

“Hey,” he called out, smirking. “Can you even swim?”