Page 73 of Lethal in Pink

Three months of distance evaporates in less than thirty seconds. I spent all summer trying to build a wall between myself and whatever this is, and she knocks it down with crooked sunglasses and three sentences.

We reach the heavy stone steps of the main hall. The carved Latin motto above the archway glares down at us in the morning sun.

Amiyah hitches her tote bag higher on her shoulder. The leather strap catches on the silver chain at her neck, and she pauses on the bottom step to untangle it.

I watch her hands. Petite, elegant, with long, neat nails painted a soft pale blush—yet grounded by the tiny, calluses on the pads of her fingers.

My gaze drops to her wrist, where the thin red line cuts across her pale skin.

“You’re staring,” she says, her voice dropping an octave as she detangles the chain.

“What happened?” I nod toward her arm.

She pulls her wrist back slightly, her posture stiffening—that instinctual, lawyer-grade defense mechanism kicking in the second she feels perceived. “Kitchen knife. I was cutting peaches yesterday. I’m fine, Jae.”

“Maybe I don't like seeing you hurt,” I say quietly.

Amiyah pauses, her fingers hovering near the silver chain at her neck. She rolls her shoulders back, throwing up that familiar wall before I can get any closer. “It’s literally just a scratch. Don't be so dramatic.”

I step up onto the stone riser next to her, closing the last few inches until there’s no room left between us. Up close, standing one step below me, she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. The sharp morning air carries the warm scent of her perfume—vanilla, plum, and jasmine—so thick it makes my head swim.

“It could be a speck of dust, Amiyah,” I say softly, keeping my voice low enough that it stays strictly between the two of us. “If it touches you, I’m paying attention.”

Amiyah freezes. Her throat shifts as she swallows, her mouth parting just enough for a tiny, caught breath to escape. The defensive edge in her shoulders melts away, replaced by something far more dangerous: total, unguarded stillness. A flush blooms right at the dip of her collarbone, racing up her neck before she can stop it.

She stares at me for one long, suspended second, completely out of comebacks. Then she clears her throat, spinning on her heel toward the heavy double doors before the blush can take over her whole face.

We push into the cool, shadowed hallway, and the roar of the quad cuts off instantly. The air in here is quiet, echoing with the soft scrape of leather shoes on marble.

She walks beside me, her sandals clicking in time with my boots. I am so hyper-aware of her body next to mine that my skin feels hot.

I take a long, bitter sip of my cold dark roast and adjust the heavy strap of my bag.

The smile is still there on my face, stubborn and stuck.

Chapter twenty-five

Amiyah

The Property Law elective is on the second floor of Duncan Hall, which means climbing a set of limestone stairs that smell like citrus polish and institutional anxiety before pushing through double doors carved with the names of every dean who ever ruled this building with an iron fist and a red pen.

Yesterday was a chaotic mess of orientation crowds and running into Jae on the quad, but today is Tuesday—which means my actual lecture schedule kicks off.

The room is exactly what you’d expect from something built in 1926: dark wood paneling that swallows sound and light, tall windows with original wavy glass that distort the quad outside into a green-and-blue blur, and a mahogany lectern at the front so massive it looks like a coffin. The desks form a loose horseshoe—heavy, scarred oak with attached iron chairs that squeak if you so much as shift your weight, ensuring the whole room registers the exact second you lose focus.

I step through the doorway and freeze.

Jae Kim is sitting right in the center of the first row—dead center of the horseshoe—his chair angled toward the empty desk beside him. His backpack is slouched on that surface, a black North Face bag with a frayed strap and a faded patch I recognize from roughly eight thousand hours of Discord streams, occupying the polished wood like a squatting tenant.

He took my spot. Front row, center—the exact coordinate I claim in every lecture I’ve taken since freshman year. And he saved the desk right next to him.

Something slips in my face.

It’s a sudden, traitorous twitch at the corner of my mouth that tries to pull upward before my brain catches it and slams the emergency brake. My expression recalibrates instantly. Cheek muscles lock. Chin sets. Eyes flatten into a cool, neutral shield.

I walk straight down the middle aisle, my sandals clicking against the floorboards while the heavy brass key ring attached to my tote bag jingles with every step. Jae doesn’t turn around, though his shoulders shift as he types on his laptop, the soft thwack of the keys cutting through the pre-lecture hum.

I reach the empty desk in the middle of the front row. His bag sits right on the dark grain, smelling faintly of cedar, cold morning air, and something warm that belongs entirely to him—a scent that has no business feeling this familiar.