Thoma shakes the rain from his sleeves, laughing sheepishly.

“I told you we shouldn’t have tried to prune the hydrangeas before the storm passed.”

Ayato sits beside him, the picture of calm—even with his robe slightly damp and a single leaf stuck in his hair. “And yet, you insisted. I simply followed the radiant force of your optimism.”

Thoma opens his mouth to argue, then narrows his eyes playfully.

“You’re the one who said you’d ‘supervise with elegance.’”