Page 75 of Lethal in Pink

He turns his head slightly, his eyes tracking down my profile. It’s not subtle. His gaze drags slow and heavy from my temple down to my collarbone, and every nerve ending under my skin goes up in flames. My throat tightens. My chest aches with a sudden, suffocating panic because how is he doing this without even trying?

I hold out for forty-seven seconds.

Then I snap my eyes sideways to glare at him.

He’s already waiting. The smirk has softened into something quieter, warmer—the curve of his mouth when he’s caught me dropping my guard and has no intention of letting it slide. His dark eyes lock onto mine for less than a second, but it hits with the sudden shock of a dropped weight in my chest.

A sudden, hot sting crawls up the back of my neck.

It spreads across my throat, rushing into my cheeks until my skin stings. The warmth is immediate, total, a flush so fierce I’m convinced the professor is going to stop roll call just to point it out.

I snap my head forward. My pink pen digs into the paper, dragging a dark, jagged line down the margin as I grip the plastic barrel hard enough to turn my knuckles white.

Jae says nothing.

He doesn't offer a cocky follow-up or acknowledge the absolute trainwreck of my composure happening three inches to his left. He just settles back into his chair, leaving the silence between us heavy, warm, and entirely on his terms.

For the next fifty minutes, Professor Vance lays out Property Law 402: Land Use, Zoning, and Regulatory Takings. Required readings. Cold-call policies. Grading curves. The details of a course I signed up for because the timing worked and the professor had stellar reviews—and absolutely not because it shared a building with Corporate Taxation, a detail I will take to my grave.

My fingers fly across my MacBook keyboard, transcribing the syllabus verbatim while I use my pink pen to annotate key dates in the margin of my notebook. Each keystroke is measured, my posture locked—shoulders back, spine straight, chin level—performing absolute control so convincingly my body might actually buy it if my peripheral vision wasn't betraying me.

It tracks every movement of his hands. The way his long fingers wrap around a cheap black ballpoint. The shift of his shoulder when he reaches to turn a page. The subtle expansion of his chest when he inhales.

The professor talks about easements and restrictive covenants, her voice a dry, rhythmic drone. The clock above the double doors ticks with agonizing slowness, each minute stretching out like wire.

I do not look at Jae.

I look at my screen. At the blackboard. At the wavy glass windows where the quad is a green smear. I look anywhere except the six inches of oak desk to my right, where Jae sits with an athlete's posture, a criminal smile, and that faint shadow of a dimple, completely unbothered by the chaos he just created.

The lecture ends. The professor dismisses us with a brief nod and a reminder that our first case brief is due Friday. Chairs scrape. Backpack zippers whine. The room explodes into the noise of ninety people gathering their belongings.

My MacBook snaps shut with a sharp, metallic click.

Notebook tucked under my arm, tote bag slung over my shoulder in one fluid motion, I am on my feet before the echo of my chair finishes bouncing off the wood.

I step into the corridor without looking back, merging into the post-lecture traffic like a woman with everywhere to be and absolutely nothing on her mind.

The stairwell is quiet and cool after the airless heat of the lecture hall, though the flush on my neck refuses to fade. My sandals click a steady beat against the stone steps as I march downstairs, listing every logical reason Jae Kim sitting beside me for the next sixteen weeks is a non-issue.

It’s just an elective.

He needs it for his clinic.

It’s just six inches of oak desk.

I push open the heavy exterior doors and step out onto the quad, letting the morning breeze cool the skin beneath my collar. I adjust my tote bag, lock my shoulders back, and pretend I don't still feel the precise spot where his shoulder pressed against mine through my shirt.

I am in complete control of the situation.

And I have forty-eight hours to figure out how to survive Thursday.

Chapter twenty-six

Jae

The kitten weighs almost nothing against my chest—a soft, hot press of orange fur and tiny, needle-sharp claws that snag on my scrubs every time she shifts. Her heartbeat thrums against my palm through her ribs, fast and steady, which is the only reason I’m still standing here at ten to six on a Wednesday night instead of heading home to collapse.

The clinic is finally shutting down for the night. The fluorescent lights overhead hum with that dry, relentless buzz that gives you a headache if you stand under it too long, illuminating stainless steel counters wiped down with bleach and a back room that perpetually smells like wet dog and antiseptic. My feet ache through my sneakers, my lower back is locked up, and every muscle in my shoulders is screaming after ten hours on the floor.