A/N: Special mention to TheNotSoTalentedPoet, who'd agreed to be my beta and contributed many wonderful ideas! This chapter was becoming rather lengthy, so I elected to split it into two parts. I didn't want to leave you guys hanging for too long, so here's the next instalment. Please let me know what you think – in the form of a review. ;-)
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Stage One – Nascence
Part I
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Conversing with Hope was as easy as it'd always been.
They were sprawled across his couch, with him in the armchair and Lightning in the adjacent loveseat. He looked relaxed in a way she'd never seen before (not that they'd had much opportunity for relaxation during their strife-filled stint as l'Cie, and Bhunivelze had taken away that very capacity itself when he'd presided over them). Though his chatter was energetic, it belied the lazy ease of his accompanying gesticulations, the tranquil cast of his gaze. He was finally at peace, and it filled her up with warmth inside.
The sun had drifted across the sky throughout the course of their discussion, which begun with the circumstances of their rebirth. Upon awakening in the new world, they and their friends had found themselves bearing two sets of memories. For them, it'd felt like a seamless transition between the events of Bhunivelze's defeat and taking up their (blissfully mundane) lives here. Apparently, this phenomenon was unique to them; only they could recall their shared past with perfect clarity.
"Why are we the only ones who can remember things like this?" Lightning mused aloud, tracing the rim of her now-empty mug of tea with a fingertip. "What makes us special?
"There's no way to know for sure," Hope replied, his wintergreen eyes speculative. "But I suspect it's to do with our closeness to you. You make up the epicentre of influence. Since you're the one who determined that we retain our memories, it stands to reason that you'd reap the full benefit of this decision. Being your family and friends, we were in your immediate proximity, and thus received the same treatment. Conversely, the further removed someone is from you, the harder it'll be for them to remember."
Hope's theory made sense, insofar as her observations of other people went. On the rare occasion where she'd stumble across a familiar face, she would see a spark of recognition in their eyes. It wasn't enough to trigger a confrontation; more often than not they would cast a quick glance before going about their own business. Rarer still were her encounters with people whose souls she'd actually rescued. Those had gone as far as calling out to her, asking if they'd met before. Her response would be to wave them away with a smile and say – with no small amount of irony – 'maybe in another life'.
Whatever Serah's protests, it wasn't as though she was being unsociable on purpose. But she didn't want to dredge up memories of her former self, not when everyone remained so blessedly ignorant. Under no circumstances did she wish to resume the mantle of Saviour. She was no shining paragon of humanity, just a tired, unlucky warrior who'd made too many mistakes and wound up as God's pawn. Couldn't everyone just leave her and her scars be? Perhaps it was selfish of her, but Lightning was grateful that the world had by and large forgotten her.
"Don't feel bad about it, Light." Her partner gave her a sympathetic look. "To tell you the truth, I'm relieved, too."
Like her, Hope had welcomed his own lack of notoriety. After all the stress and posturing he'd undergone as the Academy Director and humanity's de-facto leader, a quiet life couldn't appeal more to him. Not that he'd retired from contributing to human society altogether; he just didn't feel the need to do so on a grand scale. Or rather, the world no longer needed him in that capacity. For it was truly as he and Lightning had envisioned: free from gods, shaped by mankind's efforts alone.
She tilted her head towards him inquisitively. "So, who does this make you now?"
"Me? I'm just Hope Estheim," he replied with a self-deprecating smile that made her heart twinge. "A perfectly ordinary person."
"Or scientist extraordinaire, more like."
He let out a sigh that was more fond than exasperated. "Am I right in saying Snow coined that? He does like to exaggerate my abilities."
"And you give yourself too little credit." She waggled her finger at him.
Hope may have reclaimed anonymity, but his brilliance still preceded him. A cursory search in the new world's information banks had revealed him as a rising star in the frontier of clinical engineering research. He'd made a point of avoiding prominent leadership roles though, slipping into the backseat of researcher once more. Working behind the scenes was his true element, so he said. Whatever skill he'd demonstrated for politics was born of necessity, not genuine interest.
He'd adopted a new field of expertise: bionics. After watching disease and injury wreck havoc on the unaging populace during the Chaotic Era, he wanted to direct his efforts towards mending the human body. (It was in his nature; she recalled how strongly he'd gravitated towards – and excelled at – the role of medic as l'Cie.) Yet he couldn't abandon his old loves of technology and invention. Researching and developing prostheses thus represented a happy medium, interweaving the three.
From most perspectives, restoring people to physical wholeness would seem rather insignificant next to his past achievements. Few things could top the creation of a floating planet, and fewer still, the task of guiding humankind in times of literal Chaos. But she was proud of him all the same. While adversity had produced an excellent world leader out of him, the fact that he'd now agreed to less didn't diminish how remarkable of a person he'd become. After all, there was something compelling about a man who loved what he did.
Hope had really grown up.
And Lightning found herself increasingly drawn to him.
His eyes lit up when they delved further into the topic of his research, and it took a surprising amount of willpower not to stare at them. Simply put, they were mesmerising. His passion shone through in twin blazes of iridescent green, making him seem so alive. But even as she wrenched her gaze away from those attention-magnets, she couldn't help but dwell on other parts of him.
Like his voice.
Try as she might, she couldn't follow Hope's chatter. Having lost herself amidst the technical garble a few sentences ago, she concentrated on the way he sounded instead. He had a pleasant tenor, soft like his gentle heart, yet smooth with maturity. 'Dignified' would be how she'd describe it, not least because it hinted at an underlying power – one that came from exercising real authority and insight.
It had the same mesmerising effect as his eyes. Without much effort on her part at all, Lightning tuned in to the fluctuations in pitch, the little stresses and twists he'd place on words as they flowed out of him. She especially liked the way he said her name, his tongue wrapping around the single syllable before expelling it in one silken breath—
"—Light? Light, are you even listening to me?"
His question shook her out of her stupor. "Yes," she recovered hastily, trying not to let her distraction show. "I'm just having trouble following. It's not that you do a bad job of explaining things, but I don't know half the terms you use."
"Sorry about that," he muttered, having the grace to look sheepish. "It can be incomprehensible to people outside the profession. I guess I got carried away."
She dismissed his apology with a careless wave. "Trade jargon, I know. In any case, I'm glad you love your work."
A smile played across his lips, full and content. It made him more handsome than he already was, and she had to tamp down the impulse to gawk. "I really do. It's a privilege not many can claim, and I'm grateful for it."
Absently, he reached for his mug he'd left on the coffee table, only to realise it was empty (like hers). Sinking back into his armchair, he turned his full attention upon her, curiosity foremost in his expression.
"Alright, that's enough about me. Let's hear your story."
She gave a nonchalant shrug. "There isn't much to hear. Unlike you, I'm a bona-fide nobody."
"That's quite a step down from Saviour," he quipped, eyes twinkling with mischief. "How the mighty have fallen."
A satisfying 'oomph' escaped him as she grabbed a nearby cushion and swatted him with it. "Says you, former world leader."
"Hey, a researcher is a perfectly respectable occupation."
"Oh, so now you're gonna lord that over me?" She clutched her cushion tighter, raising it threateningly.
He held up his palms in surrender. "Not at all. Being a nobody's fine. You deserve all the peace and quiet you can get." He let his hands fall back to his sides, wistfulness stealing over his features. "We wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."
She set down her cushion, overtaken by an unexpected surge of guilt. "I did it for Serah," she admitted quietly. "Saving everyone else was only a secondary concern."
If Bhunivelze hadn't dangled her sister's salvation before her like a carrot on a stick, what then? Would she have slept on till the end of days, oblivious to the world burning around her? Would she have left her friends, even her dear, trusted partner – all of whom were only here as a result of her choices – to perish in the flames?
The thought was unbearable.
"I know," the aforementioned partner replied in a voice full of understanding, as though he really knew what was going through her head. "But that doesn't change the fact that we owe you something immense." He reached over the couch to lay his hand over hers. Warmth radiated from the points where his fingertips made contact with her skin, sending tiny prickles up her arm. "Thank you, Light."
His gaze was fixed upon hers, his wintergreen eyes brimming with sincerity. It was all she could do not to drown in them. Tearing herself away with an almost painful effort, she sucked in a breath, trying to still the jittery sensations that had suddenly taken up residence in her stomach.
Why was he affecting her like this? Even though she appreciated his sentiment (however misdirected; he should really be thanking Serah for spurring her into action in the first place), it shouldn't warrant this kind of reaction from her.
"Y-You're welcome," she finally managed to garble out.
Sensing her discomfort, Hope withdrew his hand. Relief flooded her in an instant, accompanied by an equally powerful feeling of loss (she was just a mass of contradictions, wasn't she?). A cough lifted her out of her part confused, part self-denigrating thoughts, bringing her back to the present.
"You still haven't told me your story."
"Like I said, there isn't much to tell," she explained, tapping into her other set of memories. "I still left school early, and did a bunch of odd jobs to keep us – me and Serah – afloat."
His eyes grew wide, and the reason for that became clear with the next question he posed to her. "You didn't get your parents back?"
Hope's perceptiveness was impressive; he'd honed onto her unspoken implication. Alas, he was correct.
"I guess I didn't wish hard enough for them," she conceded, shaking her head. "I loved my mother, but it's like she's part of a long forgotten past. And I knew even less about my father, who died when I was very young. In the end, being with Serah again was all that mattered to me. So my life here echoed the one in the old world."
It was sobering to learn that the alternate version of her had gone through the same tragedy. Apparently, being the Saviour didn't mean an automatic entitlement to an idyllic life. What did surprise her was her calm acceptance of this fact. Her mother's passing was something she'd long since come to terms with. It had shaped her – for the better and the worse – and set her on the path to adulthood. Undoing this event would therefore be tantamount to cutting out an integral part of her identity.
Oblivious to her musings, Hope's expression had morphed into one of horrified sympathy. "Light, I am so sorry."
Again, she shook her head. "Don't be. We may have all been reborn, but nothing's changed about me. I can take comfort in that fact, at least."
He didn't look convinced, but she had no argument beyond a simple recitation of her belief. Doubting that that would sway him, she elected to redirect the focus onto him instead.
"What about you? Did you find your parents?"
"Yes," he sighed, ostensibly relieved at the change of subject. "In this world, they'd never left me. Another thing I can't thank you enough for."
As Hope elaborated on his new life with his parents, Lightning found herself adrift in reminiscence. She'd met Bartholomew Estheim once. The image her young protégé had painted was of a stern, authoritative man, but all she saw was a father who cared deeply for his son. Then there was Nora Estheim, whose violent death had formed the catalyst of Hope's quest for revenge. He'd come out of that ordeal stronger and wiser and kinder, but she wouldn't have wished that kind of pain upon anyone, much less him.
They were a family not unlike hers, torn apart by tragic circumstances. But fate had granted them a second chance together, and they seemed to be making the most out of that opportunity. After everything Hope had gone through – very little of which she was privy to, she acknowledged with not-insubstantial regret – he deserved happiness. Reuniting with his parents was key to that, and while it niggled at her that she hadn't received the same privilege, she couldn't be anything but glad for him.
"They'd like to meet with you someday," he revealed, turning an entreating palm towards her, "if that's okay with you?"
"Someday," she echoed, neither declining nor committing to his offer. She wasn't prepared to cross that bridge yet, not when Hope himself had only so recently made a reappearance in her life.
He nodded, accepting her tentative reply. "So, Light—or should I call you 'Claire'? It just occurred to me that you'd go by your old name now."
"While that's true, I prefer Light," she corrected him. "At least among old friends."
The corners of his lips tugged upwards in a nostalgic smile. "I prefer Light, too."
He'd assumed correctly: in this world, she went by 'Claire Farron'. That was her official name, which she maintained in public for consistency's sake. While 'Claire' comprised part of her identity – courtesy of Lumina's reintegration – the name no longer suited her. She'd become 'Lightning', then 'Light'. Light was her final, complete incarnation: neither the forlorn, repressed child nor the cold, callous soldier, but a combination of both, and much more. It was Light who learned the importance of expressing her thoughts and feelings, and how to rely on her friends. Light may just be a name, but it represented how far she'd come as a person, and who she wanted to remain.
"Besides, I think 'Light' suits you better," Hope went on, his voice filled with warmth. "It's the name of the person I—we've come to know and love."
There was a small, almost imperceptible hitch of breath as he switched pronouns, but she caught it. He'd clearly meant to say 'I'.
The implication was not lost on her. But surely he meant that he loved her as a friend, as she loved him (and the rest of them). That said, their bond surpassed mere friendship. They were partners – a title she assigned to Hope and Hope alone. He was incredibly precious to her, second only to Serah. It wouldn't surprise her if he felt the same intense protectiveness and sense of security and belonging that she did towards him.
Yes, that must be it.
So she responded to his remark with a fond smile, and they carried on their discussion, which now revolved around their search for their friends and one another.
To her immeasurable joy and relief, she'd appeared alongside Serah in the new world. They'd barely had a week to acclimatise before Snow swaggered by (along with his coterie of NORA gang members), the ever-persistent hound to their trail. It was with a bittersweet ache that she watched Serah reunite with her lover, and although she'd had to fend off Snow's embrace with a shove and an irritated grunt, his addressing her by 'Sis' no longer irked her like it once did. Once ensured of Serah's safety – if Lightning could trust her sister's great lummox of a fiancé to do anything, it was to take care of her – she'd scoured the neighbouring region for hints of Hope's whereabouts. Ironically enough, she ran into all her other friends before she found him.
Her partner remained silent as Lightning recounted her tale, his unwavering gaze displaying his avid interest. After Snow, Sazh and his boy were the next two she'd stumbled upon. She was refuelling her car at a random petrol kiosk, and had been delighted to learn the identity of the store owner. Some two weeks later, an errand had taken her past an eclectic-looking flower shop in the adjacent suburb, where she met Noel and Yeul. She encountered Fang and Vanille on the road another two weeks after that; they were hitchhiking across the country, and she was only too happy to escort them to the next town.
The only one missing was Hope.
His networking profile showed that he worked at the main university in a nearby city, but little else. She'd gone there whenever time allowed (the car trip downtown took three hours in ideal traffic conditions, which was a sizeable investment in and of itself), hoping to catch a glimpse of him. But the campus grounds were enormous – she'd had to ask for directions once or twice – and her prey proved frustratingly elusive. It was only a matter of time, though. With each passing week, she homed ever closer to his location, until she scented out the lab he'd hidden himself away in.
But fate had other plans.
In the end, it was Serah and Snow who'd bumped into him on his way home. Lightning's eyes had gone wide as the exuberant text of 'GUESS WHO WE FOUND!' flashed on her phone screen. She'd called Serah straightaway, demanding to speak to him, and the familiar, if distorted voice (déjà vu, much?) that greeted her had made her heart skip a couple of beats. She'd wasted no time in collecting his address and insisting that she visit him at first opportunity ('Tomorrow?' he'd suggested in a tone awash with his namesake). The next morning, she'd thrown her packed briefcase into the car backseat and set off for his metropolitan residence, which turned out to be on the far side of the city.
On Hope's part, reuniting with his parents had taken first priority. Then he'd tasked himself with uncovering their online records (it was only at Serah's insistence that she'd opened – and neglected to maintain – a social media account, but Snow's well-decorated profile should've contained more than enough information to clue him in). Upon discovering that they hadn't materialised far away, he'd elected to stay put, waiting for them to find him instead. Not wanting to attract undue attention, he'd kept his own records sparse, leaving a smattering of hints for someone determined to track him down. Someone like herself.
"I knew you would come find me," he stated, his gaze steady upon hers. The words he chose were confident, but no more so than the way he spoke them: he truly believed in her.
She felt her lips curve into a smile. In this world of new, uncertain beginnings, Hope's faith in her was a priceless comfort. "I could hardly leave you alone, not when I'd already run into everyone else. Sorry if I ruined your peace and quiet," she added wryly.
To her surprise, he passed over her invitation for a witty retort, shaking his head instead. "I couldn't ask for anything better," he said in sombre tones. "You can't imagine how much this means to me. To have you here. To be together like this again." His hand drifted towards hers without apparent thought, but he caught himself in the next second and withdrew before it could reach its destination.
Being the focus of such sentimentality discomfited her even as it warmed her heart. "Tch, you're going mushy on me," she chided him, her fingers automatically reaching for her hair.
Her partner gave a bark of laughter, but the sound held more melancholy than actual mirth.
"Give me a break, Light. It's been a thousand years." His wintergreen eyes bored into hers, bright with unshed tears. "I really did miss you."
The undiluted longing and pain – so much pain! – in his gaze made her heart seize and stutter against her ribcage. She never realised that he felt so strongly towards her. While she had no doubt that he cared for her, this level of feeling indicated something much deeper, perhaps something on par with what she had for her beloved sister.
If he'd felt anything close to the agony of losing Serah—
Suddenly overcome with compassion, she reenacted his aborted action, reaching out to lay her hand upon his. "I'm not going anywhere."
He looked down at their joined hands. "Can you promise me that?" The words tumbled out of him in a quiet, almost inaudible plea.
It blinded her, this compulsion to reassure him. "I'll make an effort to stick around, at the very least," she asserted. "We're partners, Hope."
Her proclamation seemed to pacify him, and he let out a long, shaky breath. As he lifted his gaze to meet hers once more, she saw in his eyes a turbulence of thought, each clamouring to be voiced, given expression. Therefore it surprised – and disappointed – her when he opened his mouth only to change the topic.
"Can't believe it's already half-past seven. Looks like we've talked the whole afternoon away. Feel like dinner?"
She pulled her hand away and glanced out the window – the sky was now a velvety shade of purple – then at the wall clock, verifying his claim. "Yeah, I'm pretty hungry."
"Cooking isn't my speciality, I'm afraid. Is Chinese take-out okay with you?"
"Sure thing."
"I know just the place." He extracted a pamphlet from a nearby paper basket and handed it to her. "They do deliveries, too."
After perusing the pamphlet, Lightning decided on stir-fry beef noodles (whereas her partner settled for crispy dumplings with rice). He called up the store to place their orders, and twenty minutes later – with their conversation taking a turn for the more lighthearted – the deliveryman arrived. Hope answered the door, and a brief exchange took place before he returned, packaged dinner in tow.
"Enjoy," he said, presenting her with a oblong paper box along with a pair of chopsticks.
Dinner was a simple, if somewhat interesting affair. Hope's eyes had sparkled with amusement when he relinquished one of his dumplings to her (she'd been eyeing them rather unsubtly, she supposed). Despite the transaction being one-sided, sharing food was unprecedented of her. She did not make a habit of asking for or receiving morsels from other people's plates, after all. The fact that she'd accepted his token – small though it may be – spoke volumes of the ease she felt in his presence.
Bellies filled, they disposed of their trash and passed the rest of the evening in amicable chatter. As the hours ticked down to midnight, it occurred to Lightning that this was the longest – and most enjoyable – conversation she'd ever held with anyone. While Hope was an excellent conversationalist, it amounted to more than that. Their dynamic had changed over the course of their relationship, from mentor and pupil, to comrades and partners, and now to something suspiciously like best friends. Without the threat of imminent disaster, and Hope restored to his true, fully fledged adult self, it became clear how well they actually got along.
"It's almost boring, this world," she remarked, her hand twitching for a gunblade that was no longer there. "I'd happily take the absence of gods and fal'Cie, but there're no monsters to kill. All those years of combat training gone to waste…"
Her partner gave a brief chuckle. "You sound like an adrenaline junkie. I know I'd rather do without savage beasts threatening to disembowel me."
"There's something about the thrill of the fight that makes me feel alive," she explained, sighing. "I hate to say it, but I miss those days – if only for that."
"I feel you," he commiserated, his eyes glazed over in reminiscence. "Been there, done that, remember? But I'm always worrying about all the bad things that could happen." He shook his head, giving a little shudder.
Of course; his line of work would make him appreciate the frailness of their human bodies. She understood this too; whatever the situation, she would always maintain some degree of caution. But countless years of magic and divinity had desensitised her, turning injury into a near inconsequential matter. Being mortal again was something she still had to readjust to.
"That's why you're the medic. You fix us up."
"Even so. I know it's inevitable, but I don't like seeing people get hurt. There's no sense in being reckless. Not that you ever were, Light." He cast his gaze downwards, his pale eyes blinking up at her from behind long, contrastingly dark lashes. "That's what I respected about you."
She nodded, acknowledging his compliment. Then a thought came to her. "Say, if I lose a leg," she said idly, tapping her index finger against her chin, "you'd be able to make me another one, right?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "But as you're no doubt aware, the technology here isn't as refined as our old world. It'd be a long, painful recovery process. Rehab would take several months, possibly a year. In the meantime, you wouldn't be able to work, go places – you'd lose your independence." His tone was light, contrasting with the gravity of his words.
She cocked her head, unsurprised that he'd already looked into the long-term repercussions. "Hmm, I didn't think as far as that."
"It's alright, Light. I'm sure you'd be able to indulge your thrill-seeking needs in other ways." Humour danced among the green eddies of his irises. "Safer ways."
As evidenced by that conversation, they shared many similar views with different, if complementary approaches. He was forward-thinking, whereas she preferred to focus on the present (or the past), and he tempered her bluntness and stoicism with warmth and gentility. Instead of clashing, they played off each other's strengths and weaknesses. This harmonious interplay, combined with their unconditional acceptance of one another, was what had made them such good partners in the end.
Therefore, it was ironic that the perfectly mundane topic of sleeping arrangements would be one to stir up conflict between them.
"The couch is fine." Lightning stroked the arm of her loveseat, relishing the feel of smooth leather beneath her fingertips. Having spent an entire day here, she knew it would make a more-than-adequate bed.
However, Hope didn't agree with her opinion. "No, I must insist that you take the bed," he argued, brows knitted together in a frown.
"Look Hope, I've slept in worse places before."
"'Worse places' don't apply here."
She resisted the urge to place her hands on her hips. "It really is fine."
"It isn't," he maintained, his exasperation becoming more pronounced with every word. "I can't, in good conscience, allow you to sleep on the couch when there's a perfectly good bed ready. You're my guest."
"And I'm saying that doesn't matter."
"Light, please." He locked gazes with her, entreaty in his eyes. "Allow me this one hospitality."
She huffed, realising that he wasn't going to relent on the matter. Why did he have to be so stubborn? "Fine."
A noise of similar frustration escaped him, and he looked away, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe we're arguing over this."
Sleeping logistics could be a source of drama, even between Lightning and her sister, who'd shared the same bed numerous times. In the end, having multiple sleeping quarters was the best solution. "It'd be so much easier if you had another bedroom," she voiced her thought aloud, "or even an extra mattress."
The hand he'd lifted to his face went still, before drifting down to cup his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I didn't pick out this place with the intention of hosting sleepovers. Maybe that's an oversight."
"What, you're considering getting another place?" she burst out incredulously. "I wasn't being serious."
"Actually, yes." He turned back towards her, his expression intent. "Now that I know where all of you live, I'd like to be within reasonable travelling distance. A four-hour car journey is decidedly not that."
"That's true. Still, you've got a pretty nice set-up here." She waved a hand around, indicating their well-furnished surroundings. "Wouldn't it be a hassle to give it up?"
He let out a soft exhalation, his eyes fluttering shut. "Maybe. But it'd be worth the sacrifice to have you all nearby."
"I understand, I think. I'm not particularly attached to my house either."
Wintergreen eyes flicked back open, alit with curiosity. "Hmm, why's that?"
Were it anyone but Hope asking that question, Lightning wouldn't be anywhere near as forthcoming with her answer. "Serah moved out with Snow a little while ago," she sighed. "It's not the same without her."
"You miss having her around?"
"Yeah," she affirmed, pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts before elaborating further. "Company's nice, and you don't realise how much you miss it till it's gone. In Valhalla, I was alone. Even with battles to keep me occupied, the loneliness ate away at me. Then I got Serah back, and now she's left me again." She drew a deep breath before releasing it, the sound heavy with moroseness.
There was profound sympathy – and more than a flicker of understanding – in her partner's gaze. This time, he did not hesitate before reaching forward to take her hand. "You don't have to be alone, Light. Not anymore. What if I—what if we—" he cut himself off and shook his head, as though he'd said too much.
Acutely aware of his larger hands cradling her own, Lightning decided to vocalise his unspoken statement. "You and me? Together?"
Hope visibly back-pedalled, exposing his wrists. "I'm sorry; that was rather presumptuous of me."
Several seconds passed by in which she pursed her lips, contemplating the suggestion. It did not rouse any feelings of discomfort – quite the contrary – and for her, that was sufficient grounds to continue. "Well, I'm not averse to the idea," she admitted, looking him in the eye. "I'd have to mull it over first, though."
His shoulders, which had tensed into rigid lines during those crucial few seconds, now relaxed. "Of course. It just sprang up on me, too."
"Why don't we talk about it tomorrow?" she offered.
He nodded. "Yeah, let's do that."