Page 117 of Lethal in Pink

“Uh-huh.” His tone is dry, but there’s something underneath it—a precision to the way he’s choosing his words that doesn’t match the banter. “Has she done other stuff? Like, weird stuff. Things that made you raise an eyebrow.”

I think about it. The library. Her fingers under the table, her breath catching while she pretended to read case law. The way she drives—like every red light is a personal insult. The particular sharpness in her eyes when someone challenges her in class, like she’s running calculations behind her retinas.

“Nothing I’d call weird,” I say finally. “She’s just—intense. Everything she does, she does at full throttle. It’s actually kind of refreshing.”

“Refreshing,” Kiho echoes. “Right.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe you think it’s refreshing. I also think you have a type, and your type is ‘will probably kill me someday,’ and you find this charming instead of concerning.”

“She’s not going to kill me.”

“I didn’t say she was.”

“You implied it.”

“I implied nothing. You inferred.” There’s a faint click on his end—the soft, digital sound of an incoming notification. He doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t pause. Just keeps talking. “So what’s the plan? You seeing her again?”

“Tomorrow. Study session at the library. Our usual spot.”

“The alcove.”

I smile at the ceiling.

“Romantic.”

“It’s practical. Good sightlines, quiet, and the carrel next to us is occupied by a guy who wears noise-canceling headphones and falls asleep at two in the morning. It’s perfect.”

“Sure. Perfect.” Another pause, shorter. “Just—be careful, yeah? Not because of the taser thing. Just in general. You know how you get.”

“How I get.”

“All in. No brakes. The whole Jae Kim special.”

I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest doesn’t budge. “I’m fine, Kiho. Seriously. It was one weird night. Everything else is—good. Really good.”

“Good.” He doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but he lets it go—the particular grace of a friend who knows when to push and when to step back. “Anyway, I should probably get up. My girlfriend’s texting me about breakfast, and if I don’t respond within three minutes she’s going to assume I’m dead and call emergency services.”

“Tell her I say hi.”

“I’ll tell her you got tased by a law student and thought it was hot. She’ll love that.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Too late. Already typing.” The smile is audible in his voice. “Take care of yourself, man. Call me if anything else explodes. Or electrocutes. Or whatever verb applies to your current situation.”

“Will do.” I’m smiling too, the phone balanced against my chest, the lukewarm coffee forgotten on the nightstand.

He laughs—the easy, familiar sound of it carrying across fourteen hours and six thousand miles like it’s nothing—and the line goes quiet.

I set the phone down on the mattress beside me and lean back against the headboard. The ceiling above me is smooth white plaster, entirely unremarkable, and I stare at it for a long moment while the residual warmth of the call settles into something quieter.

The smile is still on my face. It doesn’t want to leave.

I reach for the coffee, finish the last cold swallow, and set the empty mug back on the nightstand with a soft clink that echoes in the quiet apartment. Outside, Los Angeles is fully awake now, the traffic on Westwood a distant white-noise hum, and somewhere in this city, Amiyah Lane is probably already sitting in a lecture hall with her color-coded tabs and her perfect posture, looking like she owns the entire room.

I should get dressed. I have a clinic shift in two hours, and my scrubs are somewhere in the laundry pile I’ve been ignoring since Tuesday.