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“Debatable.”

He shook the tin with a little more flourish than necessary, strained the drink into the glass, then reached for the tiny deli container of black sugar mixture he’d been messing with earlier—the stuff he’d privately started calling theatrical ash because it sounded more elegant than pulverized goth nonsense.

Really, it was just activated charcoal, sugar, and a microscopic amount of salt.

He floated a soft dark layer across the top with deliberate concentration, then garnished the glass with a singed rosemary sprig.

Layla stared.

The drink was gorgeous, annoyingly so. Pale green-gold at the bottom, black drifting across the surface in a shadowy veil, and rosemary smoking faintly at the rim like it had just survived a curse.

“Oh, that’s evil,” she said.

He smiled despite himself. “Right?”

“What’s it called?”

The answer arrived too fast.

“The White Lighter.”

Antonio’s voice from the kitchen the night before slid through his mind like something cool and sharp.

Twenty-six-year-old actor in this city? Hope you don’t own any white lighters.

He hated that the joke was still in there. Hated more that it was apparently useful tonight.

Layla watched his face change. “Oh no,” she said. “Is this somehow connected to the roommate? Not sure I like that.”

“It is not about the roommate.”

“It is one hundred percent about the roommate.”

Hakeem picked up the glass and examined the color against the light. “It’s just a good name.”

She waited.

“He made one weird joke.”

“Explain.”

“I’m reclaiming the symbolism.”

Layla folded her arms. “You are so deeply full of shit.”

He ignored that and took a careful sip.

The drink hit bright first—lime, then the edge of tequila—before the smoked rosemary came in behind it, dry and haunting and a little dramatic. The sugar-charcoal float softened the finish just enough to make the whole thing feel intentional instead of aggressive.

His dark eyes widened.

“Oh, that’s actually good.”

Layla took the glass from him without asking and tried it herself. She frowned the way she always did when she was concentrating on whether something deserved praise.

Then: “Damn it.”

“Exactly.”