Page 80 of Lethal in Pink

The car smells like leather conditioner and cedar—that same warm, heavy scent that clings to his clothes and follows him through rooms. With its tinted windows and low, heavy-chested engine, the sound system is currently playing something low and instrumental, a piano line threading through the darkness just soft enough to talk over.

I have my elbow propped on the door, my head tilted back against the headrest, one bare leg crossed over the other. The skirt is short. Deliberately short. It hits high up on my thighs the pleats soft against my skin every time the car shifts through a curve. The fitted tank top clings to my ribs, sheer fabric that does nothing to hide the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. I told myself it was too hot for layers. Another flimsy lie.

Jae drives with one hand loose on the wheel, his fingers long and relaxed against the leather. His other arm rests along the center console, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin without touching it. He’s wearing joggers and a ribbed white tank. The streetlights sweep across the interior in slow, rhythmic passes, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes track the road with that unhurried focus that makes my stomach tighten.

Then the lights catch something else.

His gaze drops. Just for a second—a quick, involuntary flick down to my legs, the bare skin of my thigh where the skirt has ridden up, the curve of my knee against the leather seat. He doesn’t pull away fast enough. I catch the whole thing: the slight dilation of his pupils, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the fractional tightening of his fingers on the wheel.

I say nothing. I let him look.

He does it again three minutes later at a red light, his eyes dragging slow and deliberate across the exposed line of my collarbone, the narrow strap of my top, the hollow at the base of my throat where my silver chain rests against warm skin. The light turns green. He shifts gears, and the car pulls forward with a smooth, liquid surge that presses me back against the seat.

The city falls away beneath us as we climb. The streets narrow, houses growing larger and further apart behind privacy hedges glowing under security lights. Through my window, Los Angeles unravels into a sprawl of light so dense it loses all meaning—streetlamps bleeding into the orange haze of smog, the downtown skyline reduced to a jagged cluster of metal and glare.

Jae pulls into a gravel turnout at the crest of the hill. The engine cuts, and the silence that rushes in is immediate and heavy: the low, constant hum of the Hills, distant traffic on Mulholland, the whisper of wind through dry brush.

“We’re the only ones up here,” I say.

Jae leans back in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel. “For now.”

The console between us feels both too wide and not wide enough. His arm rests along the edge, his fingers loose, the small crown tattoo on his inner wrist catching the distant glow of the city.

“So,” he says. “Hypothetical.”

“Always with the hypotheticals.”

“If you could have any superpower—and you’re not allowed to pick flight, because that’s boring—what would it be?”

I tilt my head against the headrest, considering. “Invisibility.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Not mind reading? Not super strength? You want to disappear.”

“I want the option to disappear,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Hmm.” He studies me, his dark eyes unreadable in the dim light. “I’d pick time manipulation. Freeze time, rewind, fast-forward. The whole package.”

“Of course you would. Control freak.”

“Guilty.” He doesn’t deny it. “Next hypothetical. You’re stranded on a desert island. You can bring three books, one album, and one person. Go.”

“The complete works of Sherlock Holmes counts as one book if it’s bound together.”

“That’s cheating.”

“It’s efficient.”

He laughs—that low, warm sound starting in his chest and working up through his throat. I feel it more than hear it, a vibration traveling through the leather seat and into my ribs. “Fine. Holmes counts as one. The other two?”

“Maybe something by Toni Morrison. And a field guide to edible plants. Practical concerns.”

“And the album?”

“Something I could listen to a thousand times without going insane,” I say, tapping a nail against the console. “Probably SOS by SZA. Or maybe Titanic Rising by Weyes Blood if I want to lean into the existential dread.”

He glances sideways, a slow smirk catching the edge of his mouth. “Classic sad-girl hours. Fitting.”

“And the person?”