Page 57 of Lethal in Pink

“She doesn't need to. I told her everything and described the symptoms. She diagnosed you in four seconds.”

I line up a shot on an enemy squad two buildings over, holding my breath, clicking the primary mouse button with cold, mechanical focus until the screen flashes ELIMINATED.

Kiho lets out a low whistle. “Nice shot.”

He lets the topic drop. That’s the unspoken agreement between us: he drives the blade in until he hits bone, then steps back before the wound bleeds out.

We play two more matches in relative quiet. My fingers move across the keys on pure muscle memory, but my mind has completely checked out, running through an involuntary playback of the last thirteen weeks. With only one week left in the semester, every single memory feels on a countdown.

The way my eyes automatically track across the second floor of Thornfield Hall at 9:58 PM, waiting for her to round the stacks.

The sharp, dangerous curve of her mouth when she catches me slipping on a procedural detail.

The pink silk bow tucked into her hair—soft, pristine, perched right over a mind that operates like a steel trap.

And Sunday night. Our last study session in the alcove.

The countdown was running in the back of my head all night, an unbearable background noise. When she handed over the printed briefs, her skin brushed mine—a lingering, slow drag of fingers that set every nerve in my arm on fire. Then she tilted her head up and looked right into me.

Jesus, those eyes.

They aren't just blue; they’re this beautiful clear, electric, storm-glass blue that seemed to catch every scrap of amber light in the library and burn with it.

My heart kicked against my ribs, hard and uneven, like it was trying to break out of my chest and crawl over to her side of the table. A heavy, aching heat settled low in my gut, making my stomach tighten. My mind completely stalled out—the English language just dissolved, taking every law rule and self-preservation instinct with it. She didn't even have to try. In three silent seconds, she completely unraveled me, leaving me sitting there breathless, helpless, and stupid.

Nobody else holds my attention. Not the girls at the bar. Not Brittany’s desperate texts at 7:40 AM. None of them.

“Hey,” Kiho’s voice comes through and the mocking edge is gone. “You still there?”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretches across the Pacific—a heavy, comfortable bridge between two guys who used to share cheap ramen while staring at twin laptop screens in Mapo-gu.

I sit in the blue glow of the dual monitors. The mouse feels heavy in my palm.

It isn't just curiosity. It isn't just academic rivalry.

I like Amiyah Lane.

Like, I really fucking like her.

Chapter nineteen

Amiyah

I’ve been dancing for forty minutes straight, and my feet stopped registering pain approximately twenty minutes ago. It’s either a testament to the quality of my heels or the beginning of nerve damage I’ll evaluate tomorrow morning.

The frat house patio is chaos in the best possible way. String lights sag between balcony rails in lazy, drunken arcs, casting a low, golden glow over the crowd. Speakers the size of small refrigerators line the perimeter, thumping bass straight through the concrete until the soles of my shoes vibrate. Red cups lie abandoned on the railings or clutched in hands like lifelines. The air smells like cheap tequila, spilled seltzers, and pure post-finals adrenaline.

And somewhere in the middle of this sticky crowd, my body has decided that dancing with Jae Kim is the only logical use of a Thursday night.

I’m wearing a dusty pink dress that is equal parts romantic and lethal—a deep V-neck that plunges low in the front, dramatically exaggerated flared sleeves that sway with every step, and an entirely backless cut that dips down to rest right at the small of my back, just above the curve of my ass. The bodycon mini skirt hem hits mid-thigh, hugging every inch of my hips. It’s undeniably sleek, a little dangerous, and very much out of character for a girl who usually dresses like an encrypted file.

Four months ago, Jae and I were locking horns in the very first lecture we shared, arguing over a desk because he had the audacity to pull his chair up uncomfortably close to mine. Now his broad palm is anchored flat against the bare skin at the base of my spine, my fingers are curled around his heavy wrist, and the distance between us has dissolved into nothing.

The music swells—a heavy, sub-bass track that vibrates right beneath my ribs. Jae steps back slightly, cupping both hands around his mouth to shout something over the roar of the crowd. His dark eyes are bright, but the wall of sound completely devours his voice. I shake my head, pulling my brows together in theatrical confusion.

“WHAT?” I shout back, leaning in toward him, the long flared sleeves of my dress brushing against his forearms.