Page 54 of Lethal in Pink

“They are when the underlying duty is breached,” I counter, leaning across the table. “Whether it's a prosecutor withholding exculpatory evidence or a clinician failing to disclose procedural risk, the ethical breakdown happens the second you substitute your own judgment for the client's or the court's.”

We go like this for twenty minutes. The rhythm is fast, sharp, familiar. Jae approaches ethics with the clinical, practical mind of someone who plans on saving living things for a living, while I pick at procedural technicalities and rule structures until something snaps.

He leans over to point at a clause on my draft. His hand lands on the paper, inches from mine, and his shoulder presses against mine through the fabric of my sweater.

It stays there.

The contact is warm. Solid. The heavy, dense muscle of his arm rests firmly against mine, and neither of us moves. He keeps talking about professional standard-of-care and codes of conduct, and I pretend like the warmth of his arm isn’t doing something catastrophic to my ability to form coherent sentences.

My breathing stays steady—outwardly, at least—but my heartbeat is a wild panther locked in my chest, clawing at the bars and my skin feels like it’s been struck by a thousand tiny sparks.

His shoulder doesn't move.

Mine doesn't either.

The fiction of complete professional focus stretches between us like thin glass that could shatter at any given moment.

When we finally pack up at 11:15 PM, his hand brushes mine as he passes over a set of printed board ethics regulations. The contact lasts half a second. My entire nervous system registers it instantly.

“Sunday,” he says, slinging his heavy backpack over his shoulder. “Ten o’clock?”

“Ten o’clock,” I confirm, keeping my voice entirely level.

He gives me a quick, sharp smile—gone before I can fully dissect it—and heads toward the stairs.

I wait until his footsteps fade into the carpeted quiet before I let out the breath I’ve been holding in my chest.

I walk out to my car under the cold parking lot lights. The night air is crisp, biting against my cheeks, and as I sit in the driver's seat and turn the key, a wave of profound relief washes over me.

Finals are in a few weeks. Which means the semester is almost over. Which means these late-night study sessions in dark library alcoves, and the ruinous torture of sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the man pulling me apart without even trying, will finally end.

I pull the pink bow out of my hair, toss it onto the passenger seat, and wrap both hands tightly around the wheel. Just a few more weeks, and I get my distance back. I get my composure back. I am in complete control.

I repeat the lie out loud to the empty car until it almost sounds true.

Chapter eighteen

Jae

The sun finds the gap in my blinds with surgical precision—a thin, scalpel-slice of blinding white that cuts straight across my eyes no matter how deep I shove my face into the mattress. My phone buzzes against the nightstand. A dull, heavy vibration against the wood. It buzzes again. Then a third time, turning into the relentless assault of someone who believes 7:43 AM on a Wednesday is a civil time to initiate contact.

I groan into the pillow. The sound is muffled, pathetic, and flat.

My right arm is trapped beneath my torso, completely dead at the elbow. I drag it out inch by inch, skin sticking to the warm cotton sheets. I sleep naked because LA apartments in August operate like kiln-firing chambers, and my thermostat has been broken since I moved in.

I’m also sporting a raging fucking boner. Not enthusiastically so—not the kind that demands action—just the involuntary, mechanical reality of a body waking up before the brain has agreed to participate.

The phone buzzes a fourth time. Then a fifth.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. My voice is pure gravel.

I reach blindly for the nightstand, my palm sliding across cold glass before my fingers catch the edge of the screen. I pull it over my face. The display is set to full blinding brightness, and the glare sends a hot spike of pain straight through my right temple.

The preview notification sits on the lock screen, attached to the contact name: Brittany.

Brittany, the brunette with big tits I met the first week I got to LA. The girl to call for a good time. We hooked up twice after a couple of spicy edging sessions over Snapchat, but now the whole thing just feels…wrong.

I open the thread.