Page 29 of Lethal in Pink

“Amiyah. My name is Amiyah.”

“Amiyah,” he repeats, and the sound of my name in his mouth does things to my body that it absolutely should not do. “That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks. I came up with it myself.”

He laughs, but what he doesn’t know is it’s actually kinda true. After losing my mom to the Grim Reaper and my dad to the justice system, I decided to take on a new name, something that would separate the life I was forced to have from the life I wanted.

Of course, I say none of this.

For a while, the only sounds between us are the espresso machine and the low murmur of the shop.

I study. He drinks his coffee.

I turn a page. He turns his cup in his hands.

Ignoring him is easy.

Except that once I stop thinking about him, I start watching him instead. The way his thumb taps against the side of his cup. The small crease that forms between his brows when something on his phone gives him pause. The way his hair falls forward and he pushes it back without looking up.

It’s annoying to say the least.

I return my eyes to my notes.

A minute passes.

Maybe two.

Then his knee finds mine under the table.

Neither of us moves.

It’s nothing—just warmth through two layers of denim. I keep reading. He keeps drinking. Neither of us says anything about it, which is somehow the thing that makes it impossible to stop noticing.

I shift. He shifts too—not away, just over enough to make room.

I look up and find that he’s already looking at me. His expression is different now. Not the teasing thing from before. Something quieter. Something that makes my heart start beating faster.

I should look away.

I don't.

Then the barista calls someone's name from across the shop, and the moment breaks. Blinking, I look back down at my notes allowing my pen to resume its dance across the page.

Then, without looking up, I say, “Your coffee's getting cold.”

His voice has deepened another octave, “So is yours.”

I glance at my cup.

He's not wrong.

I drink it anyway, and he mirrors me.

Cool. Great. So, that’s where we are now.

The light through the window has gone amber, bleeding gold into the pages of my notebook. There is no reason for either of us to still be sitting here.

But neither of us leaves.