Page 58 of Lethal in Pink

Instead of yelling across the gap, Jae closes the space between us. His hand stays firm against the bare skin of my lower back, guiding me in until his chest is inches from mine, and he leans down. His mouth hovers right against the shell of my ear, his breath warm and smelling faintly of sweet citrus as he repeats himself into the quiet pocket between our faces.

The sudden, searing friction of his skin against my bare back sends a wave of liquid heat crawling straight up my neck and flushing into my cheeks. My entire nervous system goes on high alert.

And I still didn't catch a single word he said.

I pull back just enough to look at him, blinking through the haze of heat in my chest. “What?” I yell again.

Jae stares at me for a beat. Then his eyes crinkle at the corners—that slow, knowing crease—and he leans back in.

“You are the worst!” he shouts into my ear.

“I’m selectively hard of hearing!” I yell back, tilting my chin up. “It keeps my life peaceful!”

Jae just rolls his dark eyes playfully, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, and pulls me right back into his chest. The DJ drops a faster track—something with a pulsing synth line—and we move together, our hips and shoulders finding the same rhythm without a single word.

The night turns into a blur of heat and movement. Red cups empty and refill. The patio grows hotter, dense with sweat and laughter. Someone shatters a glass near the edge of the grass, but nobody cares. I don't either.

Somewhere around midnight, Jae decides the party requires a theatrical reenactment of my study habits. He steps back, plants his feet wide on the concrete, and begins miming with the solemn dedication of a stage actor.

First: the highlighters. His right hand grips an invisible pen, making swift, razor-sharp strokes through the air. Pink. Yellow. Blue. He adds a sharp verbal flourish for each color, his accent thickening playfully with every imaginary line.

Then: the tabs. His left hand becomes the tab dispenser, peeling invisible plastic flags off an invisible sheet and slapping them onto the edge of an imaginary binder, making a crisp tch-tch sound with his tongue for every placement.

Finally: the page alignment. Both hands flat, parallel, sliding invisible sheets of paper into a vertical stack so precise it borders on illness. He finishes with a subtle, satisfied nod—eyebrows raised, chin tucked—the exact face I make when my notes are organized well enough to survive an audit.

It is, objectively, the most accurate caricature of me ever performed.

I shove him. Hard. Both palms flat against the warm center of his chest, putting my entire weight into it—the kind of shove that says I see you, and I am going to murder you.

He stumbles backward, dark eyes wide as his arms pinwheel for balance, and collides straight into a stranger’s red cup. Cheap rum and Coke goes airborne in a dark arc, splashing across the concrete like applause.

“Shit—” Jae spins around, hands raised instantly. “I am so sorry, man. Let me buy you another.”

The stranger—a guy in a faded band tee who looks like he’s been drinking since noon—just waves a sticky hand. “You’re good, bro. It’s a patio.”

Jae turns back to me, and the grin on his face is blinding. His dark hair is damp at his temples, clinging to his forehead in messy strands, and his black shirt is damp against his chest, outlining the hard shape of his shoulders in a way that makes focusing on his face an exercise in self-discipline.

“Worth it,” he says, breathing a little hard.

“You’re an idiot,” I tell him. But I’m laughing. Really laughing.

Not the measured, polite chuckle I use in seminars. Not the disarming smile I deploy when someone asks too many questions about my family. This is raw, loud, unscripted—bubbling up from somewhere deep behind my ribs that I usually keep under armed guard. My head is tipped back. Half my blonde hair has escaped its knot, falling in soft waves around my neck. The bodycon dress clings to every line, the exaggerated sleeves floating around my wrists, and I haven't checked my phone or my surroundings in two hours.

I haven't mapped the exits. Haven't calculated the room's density. Haven't kept an eye on the perimeter.

I’m just present. Alive in a way that feels reckless, terrifying, and completely necessary.

The DJ switches tracks, dropping into a slow, heavy beat that feels like honey dripping through a speaker. The crowd condenses—bodies pressing closer, voices dropping to low hums as the patio settles into a warmer, heavier energy. The space between Jae and me evaporates.

He leans down. His mouth hovers a breath away from my ear, his hand settling low on my exposed back, radiating a steady, heavy heat against my skin.

“I’m heading back to Seoul for the summer,” he says, his voice low and clear, cutting clean through the bass.

He pauses, his dark eyes holding mine with a sudden, quiet intensity that turns my pulse into a chaotic stutter.

“I want to stay in touch, Amiyah.”

The words sit between us with the heavy, undeniable weight of something that’s been waiting under the surface all semester. It’s not casual. His voice doesn't sound casual, and his eyes don't either. They’re asking a real question, holding me in place under the patio lights.