Page 32 of Lethal in Pink

My pen moves across my notes. I capture the professor’s points, the other students’ contributions, the case citations, the theoretical frameworks. My handwriting remains perfect. My margins remain even. My highlighting remains strategic.

And my attention keeps snagging.

On Jae’s contributions to the broader discussion. The specific construction of his arguments—not showy, not performative, just…good. The way he doesn’t over-explain. The way he listens to other students before he responds, actually listens, the kind of listening that involves letting the other person’s point fully land before his own does. The way his English shifts when he’s making a finer point—more deliberate, more exact, the accent receding slightly into the architecture of the sentence rather than leading it.

Class comes to an end and students begin packing up their belongings. Backpacks zip. Chairs scrape.

I am acutely aware that Jae is still in the room.

I can hear the unhurried pace of him gathering his things.

I stand. I shoulder my tote and walk toward the door without looking back but go fucking figure as soon as my foot crosses the threshold, someone tries squeezing past and our shoulders bump.

“Oh, excuse m—” I start to say, then realize who it is. “Oh, it’s just you.”

“Are you always this friendly?” Jae asks.

“I’m actually a fucking delight. I just don’t like you.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

I walk faster, but my short legs are no match for his long stride.

He adjusts the strap on his shoulder, “Hey,” he says, falling into step beside me with an ease that suggests he’s been invited, which he absolutely has not, “Good argument today, hotshot.”

“I was right and you know it.”

He smiles, “I know no such thing.”

“Bullshit.”

My phone buzzes in my hand. I unlock the screen and see an email from the Law and Ethics professor.

*RE: Ethics Project Pairings - Winter Semester*

I open it.

Nope. No. You have to be fucking kidding me.

There, in the pairing chart, is his name. Right next to mine.

Okay, it’s officially official—the universe is actively conspiring against me.

Chapter eleven

Jae

Itake the stairs two at a time, my backpack knocking against my spine with every step.

By the time I reach the second floor, I can feel the strap digging into my shoulder. I shift it higher and keep walking.

Thornfield Hall Library is bigger than it needs to be. Two floors of dark wood, old stone, arched windows, and enough carved molding to make the whole place feel less like a university library and more like someone decided a cathedral needed a place to store books.

The afternoon light comes through the tall windows in long, dusty beams. It catches in the air above the shelves and makes the whole second floor look slightly hazy. Somewhere below me, a cart rolls across the hardwood with a squeaking wheel. Someone laughs near the reference desk. Then everything settles back into the particular quiet libraries have—not silence, exactly, but the collective agreement that nobody is supposed to be loud.

I pass the self-help section, then the reference desk, and head toward the back corner where the study carrels are tucked away from the main floor.

Amiyah is already there, in a pink crop top and jean shorts, perched in one of two facing chairs with her back to the wall, her ballet flat dangling from her foot.