Page 112 of Lethal in Pink

The timer dings. I pull the chicken from the oven, the heat rushing up into my face, and set the dish on the trivet with a clatter that feels too loud in the quiet apartment. The pasta goes into the boiling water. The sauce gets a final stir.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city is settling into evening, the lights coming on in distant buildings, the traffic on Wilshire a slow river of red and white. The apartment holds its soft glow—fairy lights, pendant lamps, the warm amber of the electric fireplace I turned on because the aesthetic demanded it and I am nothing if not committed to the bit.

Penelope’s voice comes through one last time, stripped of everything except the facts. “He’s turning onto your street. ETA three minutes. Cameras are clear. Twins are standing by. It’s your show, girl.”

A few minutes later there's a knock.

The knock comes at seven-fourteen, close enough to seven-ish that I can’t even be annoyed. I wipe my hands on the dish towel, cross the apartment in bare feet, and pull the door open without checking the peephole. At this point, what’s the worst that could happen?

Jae stands in the hallway holding a bottle of wine, wearing a thin gray sweater and dark jeans that do nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders. His hair is dry now, styled in that casual, three-minute way that achieves better results than twenty minutes of my best effort.

“Hi,” he says, pressing a warm, lingering kiss straight to my lips.

“Hi yourself.” I step back, letting him in. “You’re almost on time. I’m shocked.”

“I brought the wine.” He holds up a burgundy with a heavy glass bottle and an intimidating price point. “The good stuff. As promised.”

“You’re wasting your money. I drink boxed wine and pretend it’s fancy.”

“Then consider this an intervention.” He kicks his shoes off, lining them up neatly against the baseboard, and follows me into the kitchen. The apartment wraps around him like it was designed for it—the warm light catching the angles of his face, filling the space in a way that makes the fairy lights seem dimmer by comparison.

He stops at the island, inhaling deeply. “Holy shit. You actually cooked.”

“I actually cooked. Try to contain your amazement.”

“This smells incredible.” He sets the wine down and leans against the counter, his dark eyes tracking across the kitchen—the chicken on the trivet, the pasta draining, the sauce bubbling gently. “I was fully prepared for you to have ordered takeout and plated it to look homemade. This is... genuinely impressive.”

“I have layers, Kim. Deep, mysterious layers.”

“Most of which involve constitutional law and an unhealthy attachment to highlighters.”

“Correct. But sometimes I also roast a chicken.”

We eat at the island, shoulders pressed together because the stools are too close and neither of us moves to fix it. The conversation runs the way it always does—quick, warm, carrying the shorthand of two people who pay very close attention to each other. He tells me about a golden retriever and a tennis ball extracted from its stomach. I tell him about bar exam prep and the way tort law has started to feel like a foreign language.

He doesn’t ask if I’m okay again. He doesn’t need to. He just listens, his dark eyes steady on my face, making the words matter even when they don't.

The wine is good. The kind of good that warms the back of your throat and drops your shoulders by an inch.

Penelope is silent in my earpiece. I can feel her presence like a second heartbeat—the faint hum of an open line, the knowledge that she’s sitting in her office forty minutes away, watching camera feeds and waiting for me to do my job.

We clear the plates. I load the dishwasher while Jae rinses the wine glasses, setting them neatly into the rack. When he reaches for the drying towel, his wrist brushes mine, and neither of us pulls away right away.

We move to the couch. He settles into my blush sectional, stretching his legs out and leaning back into the corner cushion.

I don't sit beside him. Instead, I straddle his lap, sliding my knees over his thighs and settling my weight right against him. He catches my waist automatically, his hands warm and heavy through the sheer lace of my matching lounge shorts, his dark eyes darkening as he looks up at me. He’s sitting right here in my apartment, on my couch, looking at me like I am the reason the sun rises every fucking morning.

I lean down, dragging my mouth slowly across his jawline, pressing a soft kiss just below his ear. I can feel the steady, heavy thud of his pulse beneath my lips.

“Let me help you get comfortable,” I murmur against his skin, my voice a low, teasing hum.

“By all means, please do.” His hands slide up to cup my back, pulling me flush against his chest, his guard dropping entirely as he tilts his head to give me better access.

It’s the exact opening I need.

While my right hand keeps him anchored by the nape of his neck, my left hand drops casually over the edge of the cushions, trailing down until my fingers brush the leather of my clutch sitting on the coffee table.

My heart is hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs. I think about my father’s appeal. I think about the board counting down the hours, and Penelope sitting in her office watching monitors. If I don't do this tonight, the target moves to my back.