Page 129 of Lethal in Pink

Iwake up to pink.

The weighted blanket is warm across my legs, and the sectional beneath me holds the particular indentation of a body that has been in the same position for too many hours. My neck feels like it’s been assembled by someone with a grudge against symmetry. The fairy lights above the couch are still on, casting a soft, warm glow across the wreckage of our study night.

I blink. The apartment is quiet. The electric fireplace has cycled off, and the morning light presses through the eastern windows in thin, dusty bars that cut the floor into strips of gold and shadow. My phone says 7:17.

Holy shit fuck. We're late.

I swing my feet off the couch.

My right foot lands directly on Jae’s face.

The sensation is immediate and horrifying—the warm, slightly rough texture of his stubble against my bare sole, the give of his cheek, the unmistakable fact that my toes are currently making contact with a human face that belongs to a man I—

“Jesus Christ!” I yelp, yanking my foot back like I’ve stepped on hot coals. “Jae! I’m so sorry, I didn’t—you’re on the floor, why are you on the floor—”

He surfaces from beneath the blanket I tossed him with his hair standing at angles that defy both gravity and basic grooming principles. One eye is open. The other is firmly shut. A faint red mark blooms on his left cheek where my heel made contact.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says. His voice is flat, sleep-graveled, and delivered with the particular economy of a man who has not yet fully committed to being awake.

“I just stepped on your face.”

“You did.”

“I’m sorry, Jae. I really didn’t mean to.”

He sighs, but his expression softens. “It’s fine, Amiyah. Really. I’ve survived worse.”

He pushes himself upright, the blanket pooling around his waist. He’s still in yesterday’s jeans and the thin gray sweater. “What time is it?”

“Seven-seventeen.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” I agree.

We move. Separate orbits, efficient and practiced. I hit the bathroom first, but as I’m splashing water on my face, I remember. I yank open the hall closet, digging past my own stuff until I find the pile of sweatpants and hoodies I’ve been stealing from his apartment for weeks. I toss the bundle onto the couch where he’s frantically trying to figure out how his jeans from yesterday have become so stiff.

“Consider it rent for the floor space,” I call out. He catches the bundle, grins, and disappears into the bedroom to change while I pull on my own clothes.

Jae gives me a quick kiss and then we are scrambling out the door, the morning rush already waiting for us in the hallway. At the elevator, Jae pauses, grabbing his bag.

“See you tonight?” he asks.

“Definitely.”

He turns toward the stairs, and I watch him for a heartbeat before the elevator doors slide shut, leaving me with the frantic energy of the morning.

By the time I get home, the sun has started to dip, casting long, bruised shadows across the living room. I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and head straight for the bathroom to scrub the lecture hall off my skin.

I register the wrongness before I can name it.

The drawer to the right of the sink sits a quarter-inch proud of its frame. I always close drawers flush. I test the mechanism three times—it’s perfect. This isn't.

My hand finds the handle beneath the sink. The cabinet door is cracked—a half-inch gap. I pull it open.

Along the back wall, behind the pink towels, I feel for the hidden space. The emergency cash envelope sits on the top shelf. Folded along its center crease. The bills are organized by denomination, but the fold faces left. I always fold it right. The passport has shifted—the edge is no longer flush with the shelf, tilted at eighty-seven degrees instead of ninety.

I stand in the bathroom doorway. My breath comes slow and even. My jaw sets.