Now there's a problem that won't do anybody any good. [ He appraises each strike that her eyes make against him, weighs them carefully. Shouta knows best that adaptability didn't always guarantee flexibility, or long-term tolerance. Raging seas, no matter how tumultuous, eventually come to fathom the rocks that faithfully oppose them, after all.

Maybe he's not there yet, but wasn't time one of the things they still had left to their names? ]

And is that a roundabout way of asking me how I am, perhaps? Seems an awful lot like it.

[ It bleeds in like so much sunlight, his cavalier sense of openness. ]