Allison's exposed skin prickles as the shift from the inside high running air conditioning to the warmth of the fall night outside the walls of the museum, and she's in the wrong clothes for this, they both are, but it'll have to do, too. There's an excited skip speed up to her pulse as the door shuts behind them. A physical sound of their escape, as she does something that would, could, might be conceived as wrong for the first time in forever that doesn't have to do with being inconvenienced or impatient.

That makes her glance over at Luther as he speaks, and feel that hum into her skin, into her bones. It feels like any number of times when they were younger, when she knew she was dragging him into something she shouldn't, but he was right there at her side, at her shoulder, in step with her, in hidden-away places, never forced or rumored or drug there against his will. It swells in her chest. Like it hasn't in two years.

It might mean nothing now (after; because)
but it's still there. For her, at least. In her.
(She wasn't the one who backed out.)

"There won't be a whole lot open, but there are places you could see or walkthrough. The Griffith's Observatory. The St. Monica pier." She's counting things even as she counting certain others out. Other museums and the downtown art walk, the bright lights and big crowds of China Town. "Though, didn't your letter just say something about coffee or something?"

She can't remember entirely, only that it was asking for her time during it in that calm, quiet, off-handed way of his. Almost like the asking for it was too big and to be done small. Like she might not want to. Reminding her of her earlier words, You thought I lied?

"There are a million pretty great coffee places if we just want to sit and talk."