Page 43 of Lethal in Pink

Boba Bliss sits wedged between a dry cleaner and a phone repair shop, the kind of narrow storefront that makes you wonder how anyone fits inside, let alone turns the massive profit it does. Hand-painted bubble letters adorn the window in shades of lavender and mint. The chalkboard menu beside the door is crammed with seasonal specials written in a handwriting that screams ‘you should try this one next’.

The line stretches out the door. Of course I’m going to join the back of it without hesitation, because boba after a hit is non-negotiable.

It’s the ritual.

The decompression.

The thing that bridges the gap between the person who just left a man to die on his own couch and the person who is going to sit on her own couch later and watch Bake Off Supreme with a weighted blanket and zero regrets.

I’m almost to the door when I run smack into someone coming out of the boxing gym next to Boba Bliss.

The impact is solid, warm, and accompanied by the unmistakable scent of sweat and something faintly minty—deodorant, maybe, or gum. My hands fly to his chest on instinct, palms flat against the damp fabric of his compression shirt. The material is thin enough that I can feel the heat of his skin beneath it, the hard plane of muscle, the rapid thud of a heart that’s still jacked from whatever he was doing inside that gym.

“Shit, sorry—” I start, but the words die in my throat when I look up.

Jae.

His dark hair is damp at the temples, clinging to his forehead in a way that makes my stomach do fucking carnival flips. His compression shirt clings to every ridge and valley of his torso, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“Oh, hey,” he says, his dark, unfiltered whiskey eyes, widening in recognition.

“Hey,” I say back.

Neither of us moves for a moment that seems to last approximately seven eternities. That is until I realize my hands are still pressed to his heaving chest.

I yank them back like I’ve been electrocuted, which, given the way my pulse just spiked, isn’t far from the truth. My hands drop to my sides, fingers curling into loose fists, and I take a deliberate step back.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, my lips pressing together. “Mmmmhmm.”

“Sorry,” he says, “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

“Clearly.”

He shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I didn’t know you came to this part of town.”

“I didn’t know you boxed,” I counter, crossing my arms over my chest.

There’s a pregnant pause.

“I’m treating myself,” I say finally, gesturing toward Boba Bliss with the kind of casual flourish that I hope reads as effortless and probably reads as deeply awkward. “A little post-study sweet treat.”

He nods like this makes perfect sense. “Mind if I join?”

“Free country.”

“Barely.”

That gets a laugh out of me before I can stop it.

Damn him for doing that again.

He smiles, and something warm unfurls in my chest that I immediately try to strangle.

We walk in together. The shop is small enough that our shoulders brush when we maneuver past a group of teenagers clustered near the register. The air smells like sweetened milk and brewing tea. I order a large taro with boba, and light ice.

Jae steps up after me. “Americano, please. Hot.”