Page 72 of Lethal in Pink

Then her eyes sweep the quad—that quick, razor-sharp scan she does whenever she enters a space—and catch on me.

She stops dead.

Total immobility for one solid second, her body locking up like she’s seen a ghost. Something unguarded flashes across her eyes before her legal-grade filters slam back down. The corner of her mouth twitches—a tiny, involuntary lift she catches and kills almost instantly.

Too late. I saw it. It’s pressed into my brain like a thumbprint in wet cement.

I lift my lukewarm dark roast in her direction. A stupid, helpless gesture, but my voice isn't working yet.

She tips her chin at me—cool, composed, the armor snapping right back into place. But her path changes. She pivots, cutting straight through the crowd toward me, closing the space between us in steady, deliberate strides.

Ten feet away, I notice the white paper cup in her hand—Beaned & Brew’d logo, the lid stained with a faint crescent of pink lip gloss that matches her top. She’s already finished it, her fingers crushing the center of the cardboard.

Eight feet. A silver chain at her throat catches the sun, resting in the small hollow above her collarbone.

Six feet. The bow on her camisole is tied in a flawless, symmetrical knot. Perfectly matched down to the millimeter. Of course it is. Amiyah doesn’t do uneven—which means those crooked sunglasses were a total anomaly, a slip-up from someone who was either in a rush or too flustered to care.

Four feet. A thin, jagged red line runs along her left wrist, from the base of her palm toward her forearm. Fresh. Unexplained. A sudden, ugly knot tightens in my gut—the sharp realization that there were hours of her summer I wasn't allowed to see, moments that left marks on her skin I don't get to know about.

Two feet. Her sandals hit the pavement in that crisp, rhythmic cadence I’d forgotten I was missing.

Click. Click. Pause. Click.

She stops right in front of me. Close enough that the air between us suddenly smells like…her.

She looks up at my face. Specifically at my mouth, where that helpless smile is still stuck.

“You look fucking ridiculous,” she says.

Her voice. God, her voice in person. Pitch-perfect, low enough that it stays just between the two of us despite the crowd. That slight, sharp lift at the end of her words that gives away her East Coast roots. The undercurrent of warmth she tries so hard to bury under a layer of frost and fails at, every single time.

“I missed you too,” I say.

She rolls her eyes—a full, theatrical arc—but she’s losing the fight against her own face. The corners of her mouth twitch upward. She bites the inside of her cheek to stop it, the effort written all over her.

“How was Seoul?” she asks, turning to fall into step beside me as we move toward the main building.

No awkward transition.

No polite small talk.

Just locking back into our orbit like we never left it.

“Loud. My eighteen-year-old sister pressed her ear to my door and made kissing noises every time she heard your name.”

Amiyah arches an eyebrow, her lips twitching with a dry smirk. “An eighteen-year-old eavesdropping outside bedroom doors? Truly cutting-edge maturity.”

“She spent all summer lying on the couch complaining that she has no social life, but refused to move unless it involved teenage group chat drama.” I take a sip of my dark roast. “And Kiho dragged me out at three in the morning just to vent about whatever it is he actually does all day. Classic.”

A tiny, dry smirk catches the corner of her lips. “Sounds like a great time. Did you at least get free food out of it?”

“Two full bowls of beef bone soup,” I say. “He bitched about his boss for two hours straight, but he made sure I finished both.”

“Fascinating coping mechanism,” she mutters, though her tone softens. “At least you got fed.”

“Yep, and the free therapy apparently works for him.”

We walk shoulder-to-shoulder, the quad noise roaring around us. She gives me the polished, high-level summary of her trip to Europe. I give her the safe, edited version of Seoul—the one that leaves out my father’s quiet disappointments and the breakfast table silences that made my blood run cold. Two people trading clean travel stories while our arms brush with every second step.