A degree close to lukewarm Spring emits from the Latte's papercup. It warms the flat of her palms, counteracts November's facenumbing gusts. Her fingers are at a comfortable lay, prepped to pitch its rim to mouthlevel and—mhmm, her gentlyshut eyes seemed to hum—her tenth sip.

Which is weird. Really weird considering that: a) caffeine isn't what she usually stomachs in a daily basis. What she does acquaint herself with is this: a pill—those mini antidepressants—and water spritzing it down the tube of her throat. They work. Sometimes. Other times, they seem to scram, somehow, out her pores at the midst of her I'm about to piss my pants o'clock and committed shrieking, stiffened state when a Devil's set on chowing her down next on the eatlist; and b)—

"Uh, um," Kobeni gulps, her mouth trembling, "where should we go next?"

This has become routine.

You both have went sightseeing arcs and fins and scales of marine life behind aquarium walls. Even partaked in wolfing down midnight ramen at a local vendor's shop. At some point, tasted strips of each other's icecreams topping softcones; drank boba from the same straws; and, now, treading shouldertoshoulder beneath the eve's crosswalk lights.

And the point is, this is the ordinary for colleagues after a workday, right?

Devil hunting for Public Safety is an aggressive adrenaline pump. And nightouts like this is reasonable immediate curing.

This dopamine—this warmth—it gives her a reason to live. Ousts what portion of her blood, sweat, and tears earnings her parents ought to have because, don't you want your siblings to go to college, Kobeni?! Mother once burst through the screen. Should stay barred in mindprison, for now.

Plus, you have your reasons.

You probably just stuck this out for the sake of your sanity. And she, by some unfortunate happenstance, was sort of a comealongbuddy you obliged in dragging along with you—your designated partner. Permanently. So long as she's not a carcass zipped up in the morgue by her next candle blowout.

So, it's not a date. She intakes a deep breath, in hopes of tattooing that in.

Yeah—a cloudy mist yields as her exhale—she settles on that.

A table neighbors a java, she spots, wood glowing in ginger-lit hues. The cup, she settles there, those free hands deadset on fishing her wallet from her backpocket. You, naturally, halt at a hand's distance.

"I'll, uh—" her syllables sort of jitter, fingers fumbling for stripes of folded bills, "make sure to pay for the next one."

There's that clear resolve her folks had clawed within—deep into the innards and miniscule line of vein: indebtedness.

This coffee stamps her second treat delivered from your own pocket money.

Time tick, ticks by. Tick three, and her conscience starts to nip. Tick five, cheeks are dyed a beetred. By tick nine, she finally pinches several paperbills.

Because fairness—fairness is something she can atleast afford.