Page 98 of Lethal in Pink

When the waitress comes back, I don't even let Amiyah argue. I order the double cheeseburger, a basket of fries, a chocolate malt with an extra cherry, and a slice of whatever chocolate silk pie is sitting behind the glass counter up front. Because looking at her sitting across from me—all sharp angles and hollowed-out eyes—I'd hand her the moon if I could figure out how to detach it from the sky.

The food lands. Amiyah grabs a fry, dips it in ketchup, and eats it with a sharp exhale of relief.

She takes two bites of the burger, then sets it down. The warmth evaporates right out of her face, leaving her staring blankly at the Formica table, her hands locked into tight fists against the laminate.

I set my fork down.

“Amiyah.”

She looks up. Her bright blue eyes meet mine, and whatever she’s been holding together behind her teeth finally slips.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

The diner hums around us—silverware clattering, the heavy drone of the ice machine, a low murmur of conversation from the counter. Amiyah swallows hard.

“It’s the bar exam,” she says, her voice flat, stripped of its usual bite. “I’ve been prepping for it for seven and a half years. Every case, every rule, every single statute—it’s all riding on one test. On one day. And if I mess it up—” She stops, taking a hard, sharp breath. “If I mess it up, everything I’ve done... it doesn’t matter.”

I reach across the sticky table and pry her fingers open, sliding my hand palm-to-palm against hers. She doesn't pull away, but her hand stays stiff and cold under mine.

“You’re not going to mess it up,” I say.

She opens her mouth to snap back, to give me some cold statistical probability about failure rates, and I don't let her.

“Stop. Look at me.”

Her blue eyes snap back to mine, dark with exhaustion and completely stripped of defense.

“You didn't spend the last seven and a half years running yourself into the ground just to crash on a multiple-choice test,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady, and dead serious. “You know the law better than the people writing it. I’ve watched you tear apart constitutional precedent in an empty hallway at three in the morning because a loophole bothered you. The bar exam isn’t a wall, Amiyah. It’s just another speed bump. And you’re going to run right over it.”

The words sit in the space between us, heavy against the background noise of the diner.

For a second, she doesn't blink. The defense mechanism is gone, leaving nothing behind but the raw, terrifying truth of how much she cares.

Then her fingers relax, lacing through mine with a tight, deliberate squeeze before she lets go to pick up her spoon.

“Thanks, Jae,” she says.

“Anytime, hotshot,” I reply.

The drive back to Westwood is quiet.

Amiyah rests her head against the window, watching the storefronts blur past. Neither of us speaks.

I cut the engine in front of her building. The security light throws long shadows across the asphalt. We walk to her door, and she fishes her keys from her bag, the metal jingling softly in the dim corridor.

“You need sleep,” I say.

She looks up, one eyebrow arching. “Do I?”

“First day of the semester is tomorrow. You’re going to want your brain functioning above the level of a goldfish.”

“Concussed goldfish is my natural state.”

“It’s mine. You’re usually terrifyingly alert.”

She gives me a small, tired smile, and I feel it right in my ribs.

“I’m not going to be the reason you start the semester tired,” I murmur. “Get some rest. See you tomorrow, jagiya.”