Mira crouched near the edge, her elbows balanced on her knees, eyes wide.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered dramatically. "There’s a toad king living here. Probably has his whole throne room under the algae.”
“It’s a frog,” Adrian said, not even looking up from the little bamboo bridge he was examining for structure.
“It’s a toad-frog hybrid with royal ambitions,” she countered, leaning farther forward. Her hands pressed on the slick edge of the stone. “Do you see it? It just blinked at me.”
Adrian finally turned. “You’re going to fall.”
“I won’t,” she said, still leaning, her face now upside-down over the water. “I have perfect balanc—”
SPLASH.
Her foot slipped. The moss betrayed her. A startled yelp echoed through the peaceful garden, followed immediately by the sound of water sloshing and arms flailing.
Adrian was already stepping toward her when Mira’s hand caught his sleeve—instinctively, dramatically, traitorously—and pulled.
SPLASH.
Now both of them were in. Mira landed on her knees in the shallow water, soaked to her waist, and Adrian stumbled in beside her with all the enthusiasm of someone being dragged into a puddle by gravity and absurdity.
There was silence.
Then Mira looked up, her eyes wide and her ponytail dripping, and said, with complete sincerity:
“See? Told you he wanted an audience.”
Adrian blinked at her, water dripping from the tips of his hair.
“…You pulled me in.”
“You were going to help me.”
“No.”
“You would’ve.”
“…No.”
But Mira grinned anyway, and that grin was all teeth and victory and frog-throne conspiracies. She reached out, splashed water at his knee, then gasped like she had committed an unspeakable crime.
“You wouldn’t—” she began.
Adrian, very calmly, scooped a palmful of water and flicked it directly at her face.
Mira screamed like it was a battle cry.
They sat there like two characters from completely different comic strips that had accidentally collided—one the picture of drenched disapproval, the other a muddy mess of laughter and tangled limbs.
Adrian looked like a prince who had just been shoved through a frog-themed obstacle course. His sleeves clung to his arms, soaked and muddied; one side of his shirt was painted in a greenish smear of algae, and a single leaf was stuck to his cheek like a badge of unintended honor. His expression was deadpan, eyes half-lidded with disbelief and suffering, as if his soul had left the scene five seconds ago.
Mira, on the other hand, was radiant in ruin. Her braid had half unraveled, curls sticking to her wet forehead, her palms covered in pond-mud. She was still sitting cross-legged in the water, surrounded by blades of floating grass, giggling so uncontrollably that her shoulders shook. One of her sandals had floated off toward the edge of the pond like it, too, had given up.
“Your face,” she choked between gasps. “You looked like—like a sea cucumber at a business meeting.”
Adrian didn’t dignify that with a reply. He merely sighed, brushed the moss off his sleeve in a hopeless attempt to restore dignity, and gave her a flat look. “You’re never allowed near a water body again.”
At that exact moment, the assistant burst into view—sharp-eyed, pressed-shirted, with a tablet tucked under one arm. He had followed the sound of the splash, his polished shoes clacking across the stone pathway until he stopped abruptly at the sight of the disaster in the pond.
His mouth opened. Closed. Then—
“Master Adr—”
Adrian turned his head slowly.
The assistant paled.
“—Aiden. Aiden. What happened.”
Mira, still breathless with laughter, raised a mud-streaked hand and chirped, “Frog diplomacy went wrong.”
The assistant blinked rapidly, clearly suppressing several internal errors in protocol.
“Well,” he muttered, voice pitched somewhere between panic and professionalism, “there are—clean clothes in the car. Several sets. Just in case.”
Adrian didn’t move. Just stared at him. Mira, grinning like a victorious swamp sprite, whispered under her breath, “Is this how you always prepare? What if we end up in a volcano next?”
The assistant cleared his throat. “I prepare for contingencies, Miss Mira. Including unexpected aquatic... events.”
“Do you also carry a hair dryer?” she asked brightly.
He nodded. “Of course, Miss.”
Adrian finally stood up, water cascading down his trousers like a miniature waterfall. Mira scrambled after him, now sloshing more than walking, still laughing.
He didn’t say a word. But Mira caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth—the faintest beginning of a smile.
She decided it was a win.
The assistant, efficient as a military unit in a botanical battlefield, led them quickly through a service route behind the research building—a side entrance marked Staff Only. Inside was a compact utility wing used by long-stay researchers and garden staff. The assistant swiftly obtained access to a private bathing unit with hot water and a cabinet stocked with plain soap, antiseptic wipes, and a stack of white towels that looked like they had never expected to face children.
Fifteen minutes later.
Mira spinned around in a crisp white shirt and a pair of short suspenders, clearly intended for a tall boy, not a half-drenched fairy-child. The shirt fell almost to her knees, and the suspenders—fastened tight—hung a bit awkwardly over her shoulders like she was cosplaying a lost pageboy from a vintage cartoon. But her eyes sparkled with glee.
“I love it,” she declared, arms flaring dramatically. “Aiden, now we’re twins!”
Adrian—freshly changed himself and looking somehow immaculate despite the earlier swamp dive—paused mid-towel-dry, one eyebrow raised.
The assistant blinked.
“You’re… what?”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
“Twins!” she beamed. “Look—white shirt, dark shorts. Hair wet. Slightly traumatized by nature. That’s called fashion bonding.”
Adrian’s gaze drifted to her outfit, then to the way the suspenders kept slipping, then back to her triumphant grin. His only comment, dry as ever:
“You look like a runaway newsboy from the 1920s.”
Mira threw a towel at his head.
The assistant sighed with the weariness of someone who packed emergency clothes for biotech prodigies but had never once predicted this. Still, he helped adjust the suspenders so they wouldn’t slip, then held out a compact dryer.
“Miss Mira, please dry your hair,” he said, as gently as possible for someone already questioning his career choices.
Mira accepted it with enthusiasm she had no idea how to control. She flicked the switch and the dryer roared to life—pointed directly at Adrian’s face. His hair blew back. Paper towels flew off the counter. A stack of lab gloves rustled like startled birds.
She froze. “…I meant to do that.”
“You didn’t,” he said.
She tried again, this time aiming at her head—almost. The dryer blasted wildly while she made vague circular motions that failed to dry anything. Her silver hair clung to her shoulders in long, heavy strands, and after a short struggle she managed to tangle the cord around her own arm.
Adrian regarded the scene for three silent seconds. Then he exhaled through his nose.
“At this pace,” he said, “you will finish sometime next month.”
“I am making progress,” she insisted.
“You dried one molecule.”
“Progress is progress—hey!”
He took the dryer from her before she could protest further. “Move,” he said, guiding her back onto the low bench. “This is a basic task. Hold still.”
A hint of surprise crossed the assistant’s expression. He had seen Adrian dismantle genetic models in minutes and outthink entire research teams without blinking, yet a small, soaked girl in oversized suspenders had somehow convinced him to stand there drying her hair. The assistant hid a smile behind professional composure, warmed for a moment by a thought he didn’t voice: the young master was growing, after all.
Adrian switched the dryer to a lower setting and began from the ends of her hair, working upward with calm control. The silver strands lifted beneath his hand as he separated them into smooth sections, and each motion fell into place with natural accuracy, even though this was his first time drying another person’s hair. He approached it the way he approached everything—observe once, adapt, and let instinct follow structure.
Mira sat with absolute satisfaction, as if this arrangement were the most logical outcome in the world.
“I knew it,” she said.
“Knew what,” he replied without looking up.
“You’re my best friend after all.”
“Stop dreaming.”
“You are kind.”
“That is a baseless claim.”
“Don’t pretend.”
“You are clumsy.”
“True,” she said, pleased with herself. “Keep telling me that. You’ll dry my hair anyway.”
His hand paused for a fraction of a breath before continuing, The dryer hummed between them, warm air moving through silver, and the moment settled with an ease that felt surprisingly natural.
?
It was nearly 3PM now, and the afternoon light had taken on that golden, lazy glow that made the world feel half-dream and half-summer lullaby. Adrian checked the time with a tilt of his head, and the assistant, still trailing slightly behind, cleared his throat with the long-suffering tone of a man whose schedule was already skewed by mud-related chaos.
“We still have time before Mr. Larkspur returns,” he said neutrally.
Mira spun around. “So we can go somewhere?”
Adrian hesitated. His hair was mostly dry now, though a few strands still clung near his temple. “We should probably just go back.”
“Oh come on,” she said, skipping backward to face him, suspenders bouncing slightly with each step. “We look like lost children, yes. But lost children deserve a snack.”
The assistant, ever perceptive of tone more than logic, cut in with a diplomatic cough. “There’s a glasshouse café near the north exit. Garden staff usually take their break there. Not too crowded. A place to dry your shoes, if nothing else.”
Mira beamed.
They walked slowly, past tall reed beds and a stretch of lemon myrtle trees. The glasshouse came into view—sunlight refracting gently off its curved windows, the air inside misty and cool. Outside, a few iron tables were tucked beneath an awning, trailing vines dangling lazily above them.
The café menu was hand-written on a chalkboard, iced tea brewed with hibiscus and lemongrass, soft palm-sugar pastries, flatbread with herb cheese, and small bowls of fresh-cut fruit steeped in lime and mint syrup.
Mira chose immediately: “one of everything.”
“I’m growing,” she said with authority, as if that justified the spread she was creating.
Adrian, with a glance at the assistant who gave a helpless nod, just sat down and poured himself a glass of cool tea.
Across from him, Mira chewed thoughtfully on a slice of mango, knees tucked up on the bench seat, suspenders slipping again. She looked utterly content—like a feral animal tamed only by citrus and sugar.
Adrian didn’t touch the sweets. He watched the leaves shifting in the sunlight instead, the faint glint of mist curling at the edge of the awning. But when Mira nudged a slice of guava toward him with a forkless grin, he didn’t protest. He just took it, slowly, as if he’d been waiting to be offered all along.
Neither of them said much. The cicadas were loud. The day was long, but it didn’t feel wasted.
The cafeteria’s dome shimmered softly under the weight of late afternoon sun, glass panels blushing gold and green from the leaves pressed gently against them. Mira sat cross-legged on her chair, nibbling the edge of a pineapple tart, occasionally swinging her feet beneath the table as if the movement helped her concentrate on taste. Across from her, Adrian sipped his iced tea, completely ignoring the sticky sheen of jam still on her cheek.
After Mira finished the last bite of her pastry, the three of them left the café and followed a shaded path toward the gate of the botanical garden. The afternoon sun filtered through layers of leaves overhead, scattering faint flecks of gold across the stone walkway.
Mira tilted her head back, eyeing the branches.
“Hey, Aiden,” she said. “That spot up there is dangerous.”
Adrian didn’t bother looking. “What now?”
“The cicadas,” she said darkly. “They’re plotting something.”
Adrian gave her a blank stare. “Plotting what?”
“Cicada invasion,” she declared.
“Cicada… what?”
“Cicada rain. They will pee.” she clarified with total seriousness. “I bet you anything.”
The assistant instantly veered to the opposite side of the path, boots scraping against gravel.
“Safety first, Master Aiden,” he announced gravely.
Adrian looked between the two of them, weary suspicion dragging across his expression. “There’s no such—”
Tch.
A single drop fell from the leaves and landed squarely on Adrian’s shoulder.
He went still.
Mira pointed, triumphant. “See? I told yooou.”
Without a word, Adrian stepped out from beneath the trees, brushing at his shoulder like he’d been hit by a biohazard. Mira grinned with the radiant satisfaction of someone who had just won a ridiculous argument.
They had barely walked a few more steps when—SMACK.
A sharp impact struck Mira’s cheek.
She froze. Slowly, she turned, eyes wide. “Did—you just slap me!?”
“Mosquito,” Adrian said.
“What!?”
“A giant tiger mosquito,” he added matter-of-factly. “I just helped you out.”
Mira clutched her cheek, pure betrayal written all over her face. “Was there not—literally any less violent way to do that!?”
“Do you want dengue fever?” Adrian asked flatly.
“WHAT!? Did it bite me!? Is there a mark!? Do I have to go to the hospital!?”
Adrian exhaled, already done with the conversation. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny bottle of mosquito repellent spray.
Mira stared. “You’ve had that this whole time!?”
“Walking with you requires preparation.”
She wrinkled her nose as he started spraying the air around them. “Ugh, it smells awful.”
“Survive first. Complain later.”
Mira crossed her arms, still rubbing the faint red imprint of his hand on her cheek. “Fine. But I’m never forgetting this. Ever.”
“Do as you like.”
Yet as they continued down the path, Adrian’s hand hovered slightly behind her shoulder—subtle, instinctive—as if ready to swat away another mosquito before it even thought about getting close.
?
The car rolled onto the coastal road, at first, conversation still flowed inside the cabin.
“Today was perfect,” Mira said, leaning forward between the front seats with a smile.
“Chaotic is the word you’re looking for,” Adrian replied.
“It was fun,” she argued. “You have to think of it as… field-based academic exploration.”
Adrian gave her a flat look. “What part of today was ‘academic’?”
Mira nodded solemnly, tapping a hand over her heart. “That part was in my heart.”
“Ridiculous,” he muttered.
Outside the window, the forest slid by in a blur of dark green and silver light, branches swaying gently in the breeze.
Eventually, Mira’s head tilted, then drifted until it rested against Adrian’s shoulder. Her voice slowed, words weighted by sleep.
“Tomorrow… should we go see the… art gallery upstairs… at the NGO Institute…”
Her sentence faded. Her lashes lowered. Breath settled into a calm rhythm.
Adrian glanced down at her, exhaling through his nose, a small sound close to a sigh. The car moved on, carrying them through a silence that felt strange and peaceful.
When they reached the coastal stop, the assistant stepped out and opened the door. Sea wind swept through the car, salt and cold brushing against their skin.
Adrian nudged Mira’s shoulder gently.
“Mira,” he said. “Wake up. We’re here.”
She stirred, blinking herself back to the world, rubbing at her eyes as if sleep still clung to her.
?