Page 76 of Lethal in Pink

My scrubs are wrinkled. My hair is a lost cause—the front half collapsed long ago into a dark, unruly mop. I don’t care. No one’s here to see it except an eight-week-old tabby who barely hit the two-pound mark for her spay today, and is currently purring against my collarbone like a tiny, drugged-out engine.

I check the monitors. Heart rate stable. Respiration normal. The anesthesia is wearing off cleanly, which means my final patient of the day is safe to settle into her kennel before my shift officially ends at six.

The kitten stirs, her tiny pink nose twitching against my neck. I murmur something low and wordless, a soft, gravelly noise to keep her grounded. She settles, her head collapsing into the hollow of my throat.

The heavy front door swings open with a low screech of rubber.

Amiyah walks in.

She’s wearing a white flared dress scattered with small pink flowers, tied at the shoulders with ribbons, the hem falling just above mid-thigh. Pink sneakers. A delicate silver chain resting in the notch of her collarbone, her blonde hair falling loosely around her face in soft waves.

I know her schedule. Her Wednesday classes ended at three. By three-thirty, she would’ve been back at her apartment across town. Which means she went home, changed out of her lecture clothes, and made the twenty-minute walk back to the far east edge of campus just to stand in my clinic doorway at ten to six.

Her eyes catch mine. Something fast and raw flashes across her face before she slams the steel shutters down, her mouth setting into a line that fails at looking neutral by a mile.

I keep my expression deadpan. If I give her even a corner of a smirk right now, she’ll pivot on those pink soles and vanish into the evening. I’ve seen her execute that exact maneuver four times this week.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is far too level. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“Right,” I say flatly. “Funny how 'the neighborhood' required a full outfit change since coffee this morning.”

Her mouth twitches, a micro-reaction she instantly fights to suppress as she shifts her weight from one pink sneaker to the other.

I glance at the kitten, then back at her.

“Here,” I say, stepping forward. “Take her for a second.”

She blinks, taking a quick step back. “What? No—I'm not touching it.”

“Hold her, Amiyah. I need to log her final vitals so I can clock out, and my hands are tied.”

It’s a complete lie. One hand is supporting the kitten’s hindquarters; the other is holding a plastic clipboard I could easily drop on the counter. She stares at the clipboard, then at my face, realizing the trap a second too late.

For three seconds, neither of us moves. Then she steps across the threshold, her hands hovering nervously in the air.

“She just had abdominal surgery today, so be gentle,” I instruct softly, stepping close enough that the scent of vanilla and rain off her skin cuts through the antiseptic. “Support her bottom with your left hand—don't press on her belly—and cup her head against your chest so she stays warm.”

Amiyah swallows, her usual razor-sharp posture instantly dissolving into pure concentration. She cups her palms precisely where I show her, scooping the tiny orange bundle with the hyper-focused caution of someone handling unexploded ordnance.

The tabby instantly sinks against the soft cotton of her dress.

Amiyah’s posture softens completely. Her elbows tuck in, cradling the kitten gently against her sternum, and her shoulders drop half an inch. The hard, defensive set of her jaw melts. Her thumb starts moving in a slow, subconscious stroke along the kitten’s spine—avoiding the shaved patch near her belly—and the room goes dead silent.

I can’t stop looking at her. The sharp, guarded edge she carries everywhere else just completely vanishes, replaced by this quiet, hyper-focused stillness. Under the harsh clinic fluorescents, the soft waves framing her face look almost silver.

I pretend to study the pulse ox reader. I’m not looking at the screen. I’m watching Amiyah Lane completely forget I exist because a two-pound stray is snoring against her chest.

Thirty seconds pass. Forty. She doesn't make a move to give her back.

“You’re a real hardass, you know that?” I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the hum of the lights.

Her eyes snap up—sharp and defensive—before her mouth twitches. She fights it, but a small, reluctant curve tugs at the corner of her lips. She looks back down at the cat like it just handed over classified intel.

“Shut up,” she murmurs.

“I’m just observing.”

“You’re smirking.”