They walked the rest of the lane without talking much because silence can be an oath too. At the end, Raina leaned against a vending machine pretending to be casual and failing only by being too competent.

“Scope grant approved,” she said by way of hello. “Also, #MarryTheTank is trending again. I assume you are handling PR by ignoring it like a grownup.”

“I will like the posts with good typography,” Anastasia said. “And none of the rest.”

“Good,” Raina said. Her eyes softened, a sniper’s version of an embrace. “Happy?”

“Yes,” Anastasia said.

Kana arrived carrying a tote bag bulging with something that could only be “gym décor” in violation of at least two civilized codes. “Do not ask,” she said, grinning. “Also, I found a ramen place with a line but I told them we just saved a hospital yesterday and they said ‘So did our aunt’ and now I love them.”

“Perfect city,” Miyu murmured.

Ootori’s message chimed: Coalition check-in at nineteen. Light day otherwise. Try to act surprised.

“We have three hours,” Anastasia said. “Permission to show Dr. Miyu the view from the HQ roof.”

“Granted,” Raina said, as though she were guildmaster for a moment and made wise domestic policy.

Suncrest’s roof was a small garden that had learned to be brave in wind. Someone had left a radio near a potted rosemary and it played the kind of music that presumes you have tea. Tokyo sprawled like a cooperative dragon—coils of rail, scales of glass, a slow, good breath.

Anastasia set the Aegis down and used it as a bench back. Miyu sat beside her and produced, from some inexplicable pocket, two onigiri: plum and salmon. “I plan for light hypoglycemia after kissing,” she said, both joking and not.

“Your craft,” Anastasia said solemnly, and accepted the salmon.

They ate. They watched trains draw calligraphy. They let the day sit.

“Miyu,” Anastasia said finally, hands folded, keys official and clear. “I would like to date you. Publicly when convenient; privately when kind. I will be late sometimes. I will be too early others. I will bring cake as apology and protein as policy. I will flirt with our friends exactly as much as it makes you laugh and no more. I will ask before I turn a shield into an umbrella in your apartment.”

Miyu turned, profile against the city. “I would like to date you,” she said. “I will tell you when my hands are tired before they shake. I will write ‘rest’ into your chart and enforce it with mean, sweet texts. I will be jealous of no one because they are not you. I will ask for slow even when the day is fast. I will bring vitamins disguised as candy.”

“Consent check,” Anastasia said, a habit that had become a tenderness.

“Consent: yes,” Miyu said, cheeks pink for reasons unrelated to wind.

They shook on it because they were the kind of people who would write love as a contract if allowed. Then they kissed again because they were also the kind of people who understood paperwork is more fun with stamps.

The roof door banged open. Kana froze halfway through. “Oh. Sorry. I brought the ‘compliant curtain’ because it looked sad without a gym. I’ll… go. Or hold it over you like a chaperone.”

“Go,” three voices said.

Kana shut the door, humming loudly to warn the air she was not listening. A text from her landed immediately: Proud of you. Please name your couple skill something I can yell during fights.

Miyu’s phone buzzed with a message from Dr. Fujimoto: Staff approval for one extra nurse per night shift came through. We may owe you a ribbon.

Miyu showed it. Anastasia smiled like a person who had just been paid in a currency people recognize long after invoices are archived. “Good,” she said softly. “Good, good.”

Her HUD, never quite done, posted a tidy addendum.

[BOND TRAIT — NAMING]
Current: Paired Breath
Team Suggestion: Kana wants “Kiss and Knit.”
Raina suggests “Quiet Field.”
Ootori suggests “Behave.”
Miyu suggests “Soft Armor.”
Choose? (Y/N)

“Soft Armor,” Anastasia said.

Miyu nodded. “Soft Armor,” she echoed, and the city took the name like a small bell and rang it once, satisfied.

Dusk arrived without asking permission and apologized by being lovely. They made it to coalition check-in with hair that implied nothing and smiles that admitted everything. Ootori looked at them, at the ribbon on Anastasia’s haori, at the way Miyu’s shoulder had learned a new resting place, and said nothing. Commanders protect the obvious so it can live.

After, Raina found her scope, Kana found a reason to lift something irresponsibly heavy in a responsible way, and Tokyo found, as it often does, that the night would behave if asked nicely by the right people. On the way out of HQ, a news drone hovered. Anastasia lifted a hand. The drone bobbed, broadcast delay catching the gesture a heartbeat late, the city at the other end waving back through a thousand screens.

On a quiet corner, under a paper moon that had stayed up past its season, two women paused, counted together—four in, hold, four out—and went on. The day had not been an emergency. It had been a date. It had been a vow. It had been, in the ledger that matters, profitable. And if the world decided tomorrow to be clever, Tokyo had it on record: the Tank Goddess and the doctor had chosen each other, and that choice had consequences—mechanical, civic, sweet.

Above them, a bell rang for shift change. It sounded like someone being allowed to leave early for once.