We left the coffee shop at four-twelve, which meant we were already late for the equipment check I'd lied about and dangerously close to missing Misato's training window.
Naomi walked beside me with her fingers laced through mine, her complicated vanilla drink half-finished and balanced in her free hand, and the California afternoon painted everything in that stupid golden light that made her brown skin look like it belonged in a Renaissance painting.
Her pink and black striped hair caught the breeze coming off the ocean, and I had the completely inappropriate thought that I could get used to this. Afternoons that didn't involve federal crimes or monster teeth or the constant background hum of my death timer counting down like a bomb nobody else could hear.
