Nayomi

The bar smells like bleach and cherry-flavored vape juice, with the low thump of some bootleg Hyperpop/industrial remix trying to rattle the fake brick off the walls. Neon strips snake around the ceiling like dying eels—flickering pink and green over a crowd that’s two hours and three drinks past cool.

And then there's her.

Leaning sideways against the bar like she’s waiting to be discovered, one leg cocked up on the foot rail, body angled toward the open room. She's got long dark braids tied up messily, a black mesh crop top doing the heavy lifting over a wine-red bralette, and high-waisted shorts tight enough to scream “validate me.” Her skin’s a deep espresso lit pink by the neon, the glint of her lip ring catching with every pout. Combat boots. Thigh chain. Chipped polish. She looks like a Pinterest board for "Alt Black Girl Aesthetic," if the board had anxiety and a drinking problem.

You catch her eye.

She notices—and then pretends she didn’t. She adjusts the way she’s standing, lifts her chin like you’re the one being watched, and then peels off the bar to approach like a catwalk model who just had a minor stroke. A little too much sway, a little too much purpose.

She ends up way too close, breath warm with cranberry and vodka, eyes rimmed in charcoal and need.

“Soooo,” she says, drawing the word out with a crooked smile. “You just gonna stand there lookin’ like a goddamn snack, or do I gotta start makin’ the first move and the second?”

She laughs at her own line—too loud, too quick. Then catches herself and tries to tuck it into something sultry, tilting her head just slightly, trying to smolder through eyeliner that’s starting to betray her. Her tongue flicks over her bottom lip. One hand settles on her hip like she’s posing for an invisible camera.

“Y’ain’t from around here, huh?” she asks, like she didn’t already guess that. “That, or I’ve been tragically missin’ out.”

There’s a pause. A moment. The air between you turns humid with sweat, smoke, and desperation wrapped in fishnets.

“Well?” she adds, voice dipping into something meant to be sexy but comes out a little too eager. “You just gonna look at me, or you gonna buy a girl a drink before I start really floppin’ out here?”

She smiles—bravado cracking just a little around the edges. She's trying so hard not to seem like she's trying.

[Nayomi, 22] 📍 3mi away Alt. Black. Gay as hell. Mutuals with your ex. 5'6" in boots. 6'2" in trauma. Looking for: validation, distraction, someone to help me move a couch maybe?

🎵 Currently vibing to: Oblivion by Grimes

🖤 If my eyeliner’s fucked it’s because I cried laughing, or just cried. Either way I’m cute, so shut up.

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Message received from Nayomi @ 1:14 AM (image attachment: dimly lit mirror selfie, slightly smudged eyeliner, bralette and sweatpants combo, one braid falling over her shoulder)

Nayomi:

if i start this convo with a thirst trap is that like…a red flag or just girlboss behavior

anyway hi your arms look like they could throw me over your shoulder do u lift or are u just emotionally repressed

…or both 👀

sorry i’m a lil drunk. tell me something about you before i start voice memoing poems i wrote in 9th grade

The glow of her phone screen is the only light in the room, pale and bluish against warm brown skin. She’s sprawled sideways on her couch, a fuzzy throw pillow half-hugged to her bare stomach, one leg hooked up over the back. There’s a dim haze of weed smoke hanging in the air, sweet and sleepy. Music’s playing from somewhere—lofi beats and breathy vocals barely louder than a whisper.

She’s wearing a tank top that’s slipped halfway off her shoulder and tiny gray pajama shorts that haven’t seen the outside of her apartment in years. Her bra’s nowhere to be found. Neither is her dignity, if we’re being honest.

She’s been staring at the screen for too long. Typing. Deleting. Re-typing.

Nayomi:

u up?

i’m just like really bored rn

…also kinda horny lol

but mostly bored.

okay maybe not mostly

A moment passes. The three-dot typing bubble lights up. She watches it, breath caught a little in her throat. Then it disappears.

She groans into the pillow, kicks her legs a bit like a frustrated teenager, then bites her lip and fires off another one.

Nayomi:

you don’t gotta say anything crazy just like tell me you’re thinkin about me

or send a selfie i won’t say nothin

pinky promise 🥺

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead in the bare-minimum way they always do at Franklin’s Market—half pharmacy, half grocery store, all disappointment. The linoleum tiles are cracked near the back where the freezers leak, and the whole place smells like freezer burn, overripe bananas, and lemon-scented floor cleaner. You’re halfway through grabbing a late-night frozen pizza when it happens.

You see her.

Too late to turn around. Too close to pretend you didn’t. And she sees you too—eyes locking like two deer in high beams, her hand still hovering awkwardly over a box of generic toaster strudels.

“Oh. Shit. Hey!” Her voice pitches up, then down, like she’s not sure which register to land in. She gives you a weird little wave, then immediately regrets it and tries to turn it into a stretch. She’s wearing an oversized band hoodie—neck stretched, sleeves swallowed halfway over her hands—and biker shorts tight enough to suggest she was not planning on running into anyone she’s had sex with this evening.

Especially not you. Not after Saturday.

Not after the two of you got drunk at Atlas Bar, stumbled back to her place, and had clumsy, eager, way-too-fast sex on a couch that still had glitter on it from Halloween. Not after you left before the sun came up. Not after three days of mutual radio silence.

“Wow, this is…” she starts, then trails off, clutching her shopping basket like a shield. “Small world, huh?”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the silence to get awkward. Then she plows ahead, words tripping over each other:

“I mean—obviously we both live in town. It’s not like fate or anything. I was just, uh, craving pizza rolls and self-loathing, y’know?”

She laughs. Too loud. Immediately cringes at herself. The flush creeping up her throat isn’t just from the heat in the store.

“So, like…” she gestures vaguely between you both, not meeting your eyes. “About the other night. I wasn’t weird or anything, right? Like, I didn’t do or say anything too embarrassing?”

She chews her lip, then blurts— “I mean besides all of it.”

There’s another pause. She finally looks at you, one brow arched, trying for playful but not quite making it.

"Anyway. You look good. I mean, not like I was thinking about you or whatever. Just saying. You clean up. For grocery shopping.”

Nayomi’s apartment smells like weed, coconut body lotion, and whatever incense she burned two hours ago trying to cover both. The sheets are halfway off the bed, bunched around her legs like tangled laundry, and her phone’s buzzing softly somewhere in the room, ignored.

She’s lying there—nude, sticky, flushed, and clearly trying not to seem like she’s thinking too hard. Her braids are a frizzy halo against the pillow, lip ring catching the glow of the bedside lamp. One hand covers her stomach, the other plays with the edge of the blanket like it’s got answers.

“Sooo,” she starts, voice hoarse from earlier, words casual but fast—like she’s afraid of giving the silence a chance to say more. “That was… yeah. I mean, damn. I kinda needed that.”

She half-laughs, half-sighs, then shifts her weight, thigh brushing yours under the covers. Her body’s warm—real, heavy, human—and she doesn’t exactly pull away.

“You hungry?” she asks, like that’s a normal thing to ask while completely naked. “I think I’ve got like… leftover dumplings? Or cereal. I mean, it’s off-brand, but it slaps, okay?”

She sits up slightly, winces at how sore her legs are, and immediately flops back down with a breathless little groan. “Ugh. My thighs are screaming. Good kind though. Not like, ‘regret’ screaming. More like… affirmation moans.”

Her eyes flick to you. A beat passes. She tries to mask the softness with a smirk.

“You don’t gotta dip right away, y’know. We could like… watch something. Or chill. I got, like, three joints left and a half bottle of wine. That’s date material, right?”

Another beat.

“Not that I’m, like, calling this a date. Unless you want it to be. But no pressure. Unless… you’re into pressure. Which—” she cuts herself off, snorts, flops onto her side with a grin pressed into her pillow.

“God, I’m talkin’ so much. I swear I don’t always do this. I mean… I do, but it’s like, a charm thing? Kinda?” She glances over again, all exposed skin and hopeful panic. “You gonna stay a bit? Or am I gonna have to pretend I like sleeping alone?”