Page 107 of Lethal in Pink

“You’re not allowed to be that good at this,” I say, reaching for another wing. “It’s aggressive.”

“I’m not good,” he says, dropping into the plastic seat beside me. His knee knocks against mine under the table, solid and warm through my jeans. “I’m adequate. There’s a difference.”

“Adequate people don’t curve the ball like it owes them money. Where did you even learn to bowl like that?”

“I grew up in a country where children are selected for professional bowling leagues at age six based on hand-eye coordination metrics.” He picks up his soda, takes a sip. “But honestly, my scores would get me laughed out of any serious alley in Seoul.”

“That’s the most pretentious humblebrag I’ve ever heard, and I go to law school.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for a demographic breakdown of South Korean sports.”

I lob a crumpled napkin at his chest. He catches it one-handed with a low, easy laugh, tossing it onto the table as a smirk pulls at his mouth.

My turn. I pick up a house ball that feels carved out of dead weight, march to the lane, and line up my feet. Four steps. Release. The ball plows dead center, clips the head pin, and leaves the seven and ten standing like two stubborn gatekeepers.

“Split,” Jae calls out from the bench.

“I can see the split, thank you.”

“Just checking.”

I turn around, giving him the tight, pinched smile I reserve for people who are technically correct and entirely annoying. “Your concern is duly noted.”

He salutes with two fingers, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges.

When I walk back, he’s watching me, one elbow propped on the armrest, tracking me with an intensity that makes my stomach dip. It’s annoying. I’m supposed to be running this operation, not getting flustered because a guy knows how to sit comfortably in a booth.

I plop back down, grabbing another wing and biting straight into the skin to give my mouth something to do.

Jae rolls another strike. Of course he does.

“Your form’s tightening up,” he says, settling back. “You were dropping your shoulder earlier. You kept it square that frame.”

“I’m not taking form tips from a guy who treats a Saturday night like a blood sport.”

“I’m coaching.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m accurate.” He reaches over, his thumb swiping lightly across the corner of my mouth. The touch is fast, dry, entirely casual—and my heart stutters hard against my ribs. “There. You had sauce on your face. Can't have you looking a mess.”

I stare at him. His hand is already back on his cup, his attention drifting toward a group of screaming frat bros celebrating a gutter ball.

The clutch on the table feels heavy.

Second game, final frame. Jae is up by eight. He rolls a nine, leaving the ten standing, and turns back with a slow, knowing smirk.

I don’t smile back. I grab my ball, plant my feet, and throw it with enough force to rattle the deck. The ball finds the pocket. All ten drop.

Jae stands up. Slowly. His expression cycles through surprise, respect, and something that looks dangerously close to fondness before settling into a laugh—a full, unguarded sound that fills the space between the crashing pins and the terrible music. He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.

“You cheated,” he says.

“I absolutely did not cheat.”

“You did something. I can’t prove it, but I know it.”