34. Jae
Chapter thirty-four
Jae
I blink at the dashboard display, my foot hovering over the brake.
Girlfriend.
The word sits there in my head, loud and unauthorized, and I actually have to pause for a second to let my brain catch up.
We haven’t labeled it. We haven't had the talk about boundaries or titles or what the hell we are when we're not hiding behind sarcasm and library tables.
But sitting here crawling toward her apartment, my chest tight with that stupid rush of anticipation, I realize I didn't even hesitate.
I ease off the brake as the traffic inches forward, a heavy realization settling into my ribs. Yeah. Whatever else we’re calling this, that’s what she is.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the curved drive of Amiyah’s building and kill the engine. My palms are damp against the leather. I scrub them down my joggers before climbing out, locking the car with a soft chirp that swallows the low hum of the pool filter cycling behind the hedges.
Six forty-eight. I’m two minutes early. By Amiyah Lane standards, two minutes early is a tactical anomaly. By Jae Kim standards, it’s a miracle of physics.
I knock. Three sharp raps against the wood.
The door swings open.
I just stand there, staring.
“Jesus, Amiyah,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” she asks.
“It's just... you're—” I murmur, before my brain can catch up to my mouth. “You're the kind of beautiful that leaves scars.”
Her eyes do that thing—a quick, sweeping assessment that runs from my face down to my shoes and back, processing the whole package in one efficient scan—before she leans one shoulder against the doorframe.
“And you’re on time,” she says.
She grabs her small pink bag off the console, slides past me into the hall, and pulls the door shut. The deadbolt throws itself home with a heavy, final thunk.
We take the elevator down in silence, her heels clicking against the tile as we cross the lobby and step out into the lot. I beat her to the passenger side, pulling the handle and bracing a hand on the roof.
She stops dead, giving me that flat, unimpressed look she uses for my routine heroics.
“Really?”
“Trying to be a gentleman.”
“You’re standing in the way of me getting in the car.”
“I’m holding the door.”
“You’re blocking the door.”
I step aside. She slides past, her shoulder brushes my chest on the way in, and buckles up with a sharp, crisp click. I close her door and walk around to the driver's side, fighting a grin I’ve stopped trying to hide.
I merge onto Santa Monica, pushing east past the gas stations and strip malls as the LA evening settles into a thick, exhaust-heavy heat.
Amiyah cranks her window down halfway, letting the rush of traffic noise and warm asphalt air hit the cabin.
Her buttery golden blonde hair whips loose from its clip, sticking to her cheek in long strands that she doesn't bother tucking back.
We find parking two blocks down from the theater, wedging the car into a space so narrow I have to climb out through the passenger door. Amiyah watches with the vindictive satisfaction of someone proven right about my spatial awareness.
“Parallel parking isn't exactly your strongest flex,” she says, stepping onto the curb.
“Next time, park it yourself.”
“I would, but you insisted on driving.”
“Because you drive like you’re fleeing a crime scene.”
“Efficiency,” she corrects, walking ahead toward the theater entrance. “You drive like you’re being paid by the hour.”
I can’t help but to laugh.
God, I have fucking missed her so much.
The lobby smells like popcorn butter and carpet cleaner.
Amiyah beelines for the concession stand, ordering a large popcorn and a large soda.
I grab a black coffee—not that I need it at this hour.
We find two seats dead center in the middle row, because Amiyah has structural opinions about theater acoustics that she has explained on three separate occasions.
The previews roll. The theater fills with the muffled, collective rustle of a hundred people settling into the dark.
Amiyah’s shoulder presses against mine. Solid, warm.
Twenty minutes in, the protagonist makes a catastrophically stupid decision on screen, walking right into an obvious trap.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, leaning in close. “Is this supposed to be the smartest person in the agency?”
“Shh.”
“He literally left his burner phone on the kitchen counter. That’s not even a tactical error, that’s just bad writing.”
“The director is seventy years old, Jae. Let him live.”
“He has a multi-million-dollar budget and he’s letting the hero outsmart a tactical unit by hiding behind a potted plant. A middle-schooler playing Call of Duty has better survival instincts.”
She doesn't even look away from the screen. “Keep talking and I’m making you drive me home in absolute, suffocating silence.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
The couple in front of us turns around. Amiyah shoots them a look of such profound, sympathetic apology that they immediately turn back, forgiving her by association. She kicks my ankle under the seat.
I shut up and eat more popcorn.
When the credits roll, our shoulders knock together in the narrow aisle, and we push through the heavy glass doors back out into the thick, cooling weight of the night.
“Thoughts?” she asks, tossing her empty cup.
“The script made zero sense, but I’m glad you enjoyed the eye candy.”
She glances sideways, an eyebrow arching. “Is that professional critique?”
“That’s just an observation. You looked ready to draft him a retainer agreement by the third car chase.”
She offers a small, wicked little smile—the kind that does entirely too much damage to my ribs. “He had a good jawline.”
“I have a good jawline.”
“Yours is serviceable.”
“Serviceable.”
“At best.”
I roll my eyes, leading the way toward the car.
She knows she’s full of shit, too. I mean, my jawline is objectively top-tier. Or at worst, top three in our entire graduating class. "Serviceable"? Absolutely not.
We’re ten minutes into the drive before I say anything.
She’s staring out the window, hands locked in her lap, fingers worrying the hem of her dress. Her shoulders are pulled up tight, completely rigid.
“We’re getting food,” I say, cutting the wheel toward Wilshire.
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up or start a bar fight. We’re going to the diner.”
She doesn't argue, which tells me everything I need to know.
The place off Wilshire is a time capsule of cracked red vinyl, chrome trim, and the permanent smell of stale grease and black coffee. A tired waitress drops off two plastic cups of ice water and walks away before we can even look up.
Amiyah scans the laminated menu like she's reading a tax indictment, her shoulders dropping an inch.
She stares at the page a second longer, and the last of her rigid posture drains out of her.
“Goddammit,” she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. “It all sounds good. The burgers and fries, the milkshakes, the pies.”
She looks like she’s practically foaming at the mouth, staring at the descriptions with the intensity of someone who hasn't slept or eaten a decent meal in three days.
I grin, not even trying to hide it. “Get all of it.”
“Jae, I can’t eat a double cheeseburger, a basket of fries, a shake, and a slice of pie.”
“Watch me order it for you anyway.”
When the waitress comes back, I don't even let Amiyah argue.
I order the double cheeseburger, a basket of fries, a chocolate malt with an extra cherry, and a slice of whatever chocolate silk pie is sitting behind the glass counter up front.
Because looking at her sitting across from me—all sharp angles and hollowed-out eyes—I'd hand her the moon if I could figure out how to detach it from the sky.
The food lands. Amiyah grabs a fry, dips it in ketchup, and eats it with a sharp exhale of relief.
She takes two bites of the burger, then sets it down. The warmth evaporates right out of her face, leaving her staring blankly at the Formica table, her hands locked into tight fists against the laminate.
I set my fork down.
“Amiyah.”
She looks up. Her bright blue eyes meet mine, and whatever she’s been holding together behind her teeth finally slips.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
The diner hums around us—silverware clattering, the heavy drone of the ice machine, a low murmur of conversation from the counter. Amiyah swallows hard.
“It’s the bar exam,” she says, her voice flat, stripped of its usual bite.
“I’ve been prepping for it for seven and a half years.
Every case, every rule, every single statute—it’s all riding on one test. On one day.
And if I mess it up—” She stops, taking a hard, sharp breath.
“If I mess it up, everything I’ve done... it doesn’t matter.”
I reach across the sticky table and pry her fingers open, sliding my hand palm-to-palm against hers. She doesn't pull away, but her hand stays stiff and cold under mine.
“You’re not going to mess it up,” I say.
She opens her mouth to snap back, to give me some cold statistical probability about failure rates, and I don't let her.
“Stop. Look at me.”
Her blue eyes snap back to mine, dark with exhaustion and completely stripped of defense.
“You didn't spend the last seven and a half years running yourself into the ground just to crash on a multiple-choice test,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady, and dead serious. “You know the law better than the people writing it. I’ve watched you tear apart constitutional precedent in an empty hallway at three in the morning because a loophole bothered you. The bar exam isn’t a wall, Amiyah.
It’s just another speed bump. And you’re going to run right over it. ”
The words sit in the space between us, heavy against the background noise of the diner.
For a second, she doesn't blink. The defense mechanism is gone, leaving nothing behind but the raw, terrifying truth of how much she cares.
Then her fingers relax, lacing through mine with a tight, deliberate squeeze before she lets go to pick up her spoon.
“Thanks, Jae,” she says.
“Anytime, hotshot,” I reply.
The drive back to Westwood is quiet.
Amiyah rests her head against the window, watching the storefronts blur past. Neither of us speaks.
I cut the engine in front of her building. The security light throws long shadows across the asphalt. We walk to her door, and she fishes her keys from her bag, the metal jingling softly in the dim corridor.
“You need sleep,” I say.
She looks up, one eyebrow arching. “Do I?”
“First day of the semester is tomorrow. You’re going to want your brain functioning above the level of a goldfish.”
“Concussed goldfish is my natural state.”
“It’s mine. You’re usually terrifyingly alert.”
She gives me a small, tired smile, and I feel it right in my ribs.
“I’m not going to be the reason you start the semester tired,” I murmur. “Get some rest. See you tomorrow, jagiya.”
She pauses, her key halfway to the lock. “What did you just call me?”
“Jagiya,” I say, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe with a slow, easy grin. “Means honey. Or darling. Figured it was a step up from hotshot.”
Amiyah narrows her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitches. “Don't push your luck, Kim.”
“Never.”
She shakes her head, turning the key in the lock with a smooth click. She steps inside, gives me one last look over her shoulder, and the door shuts with a soft thud.
I stand alone in the hallway.
The sconces hum overhead. I can still feel the heat of her breath through my shirt, the shape of her hands at my back.
My mouth just kind of stays crooked, a stupid grin spreading until I’m standing like an idiot in the empty corridor.
I walk back to my car, the cool ocean air hitting my face. I slide behind the wheel, turn the engine over, and point the car east toward the freeway. The road ahead is empty, the traffic lights cycling for no one, and for the first time in my life, I’m left with just one thought:
How did I get so fucking lucky?