The diner hadn't been a study session so much as three hours of pharmaceutical foreplay—Latin terms and drug interactions dressed up as conversation while my brain quietly fantasized about things the FDA definitely wouldn't approve.
By the time we stumbled outside, night had staged a hostile corporate takeover of the city. Streetlights carved amber scars into the dark, and everything looked like a David Fincher establishing shot—moody, expensive, and vaguely threatening.
"I still can't process the fact you wore fingerless gloves and wrote poetry about darkness," I said, picturing Valentina in full emo regalia. "There's video evidence somewhere. Don't lie to me."
"Buried deeper than Epstein's client list," she deadpanned, her shoulder brushing mine like it was just supposed to be there. "And notice how you're dodging your own humiliation reel."
