Chapter 2: Popcorn Incident
The shirt was still soft against Nomi’s skin, smelling of Jazzy’s coconut conditioner and something uniquely her, a scent that had filled Nomi’s head all evening. It was why she’d drifted to the kitchen for water, a flimsy excuse that Jazzy saw right through. That whisper in her ear, the press of hips against her back—it had short-circuited something. Nomi had just stood there, holding the empty glass, long after Jazzy had sauntered out with a knowing smile.
Now, in the living room, the memory of it was a live wire under her skin.
She’d built the blanket fort mostly to hide, a cave of fleece and faded cotton where she could pretend her heart wasn’t doing a frantic tap dance against her ribs. The movie was just noise, a blur of colors on the screen. Jazzy had joined her without a word, sliding under the blankets and fitting herself against Nomi’s side, a warm, pliant line of heat.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Jazzy murmured, her head on Nomi’s shoulder. Her fingers played with the hem of the shirt—her shirt—where it rested on Nomi’s thigh.
“Am not.”
“Liar.” Jazzy tilted her face up, her smile a ghost in the blue light. “Your brain’s whirring like a hard drive. What’s the upload schedule for tomorrow, huh? Or is it… something else?”
Before Nomi could form a lie, Jazzy reached for the bowl of popcorn between them. The move was clumsy, deliberate. The bowl tipped, scattering a cascade of buttery kernels down the front of Nomi’s—Jazzy’s—shirt.
“Oh, shit, sweetheart, sorry.” Jazzy’s apology was all honey, no regret. Her hands were already there, brushing over Nomi’s collarbone, down the slope of her chest, her touch firm and searching through the thin fabric. “Let me get that.”
Nomi froze. Her breath hitched. The sensation was too much—the rough-smooth catch of salt on her skin, the deliberate, sweeping strokes of Jazzy’s palms. She could feel the cool metal of Jazzy’s rings, the warmth of her skin underneath. It was help that wasn’t help at all. It was a claim.
“Jaz, I can—” she started, her voice thin.
“I got it,” Jazzy purred, her hands sliding lower, cupping the curve of Nomi’s breast, her thumb brushing a nipple that was already pebbled tight. Nomi jolted. A small, helpless sound escaped her.
That’s when the blanket over the fort entrance was yanked aside.
The light from the hallway cut a sharp rectangle across them, framing Ant’s silhouette. He was just standing there, having come home from his late shift. He took in the scene: the spilled popcorn, Jazzy’s hands disappearing under Nomi’s shirt, Nomi’s wide, startled eyes glowing in the TV light.
The air went solid.
He dropped his keys on the side table. The clatter was like a gunshot in the quiet. He didn’t turn on the main light. He just walked over, his movements slow, predatory, and knelt behind the couch, right behind Nomi. She could feel the heat of him, the energy rolling off his body in waves.
His lips were at her ear, his voice a low, rough vibration that went straight to her core. “Y’all playing a game I wasn’t invited to?”
Nomi couldn’t speak. Jazzy’s hands went still, but she didn’t remove them. She looked over Nomi’s head at Ant, a challenge in her lifted chin. “You’re late.”
“Got held up,” he said, his eyes never leaving the side of Nomi’s face. He leaned in closer. His teeth grazed the bare skin of her shoulder, right where the shirt had slipped down. It wasn’t a bite. It was a threat of one. A promise. Nomi whimpered, her head falling back against his chest involuntarily.
“She’s wearing your shirt,” Ant observed, his voice dropping even lower.
“She’s always wearing my shirts,” Jazzy replied, her fingers giving a faint, possessive squeeze that made Nomi’s toes curl. “She likes it.”
“That right, Nomi?” Ant’s breath was hot on her neck. One of his arms came around her waist, pulling her back firmly against him, separating her slightly from Jazzy’s front. He was bracketing her. Trapping her between them. “You like wearing Jazzy’s clothes?”
All Nomi could do was nod, a tiny, desperate movement. Her whole world had shrunk to the points of contact: Jazzy’s hands on her chest, Ant’s teeth on her shoulder, his arm like an iron band around her middle.
“She spilled popcorn,” Nomi finally breathed out, the words absurd.
Ant chuckled, a dark, rich sound. “I see that. Messy girl.” He nuzzled into her hair. “You gonna let Jazzy clean you up? Or you want me to?”
The choice wasn’t a choice. It was a depth charge. Nomi felt Jazzy’s hands begin to move again, slow circles, claiming their territory. Ant’s own hand slid up from her waist, his fingers splaying over her stomach, his thumb dipping just beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts.
The movie credits began to roll, casting shifting patterns of light over their tangled forms. No one moved to turn it off. The silence was heavier now, loaded, broken only by the sound of their breathing—Jazzy’s even and controlled, Ant’s a little rougher, and Nomi’s, shallow and rapid, like a bird caught in a cage.
Jazzy was watching Ant over Nomi’s head, a silent conversation passing between them in the gloom. A negotiation. About her.
Ant’s lips brushed the shell of Nomi’s ear. “You’re shaking.”
She was. A fine, constant tremor she couldn’t stop.
“Scared?” he asked, but his tone said he knew it wasn’t fear. Not entirely.
Nomi closed her eyes. The neon from the bodega sign outside, the same one that painted the kitchen at night, pulsed through the window, staining the room red, then blue, then red again. It timed with the hammer of her heart. She was out of her depth, drowning in a feeling she had no name for, a want so vast it terrified her.
She didn’t answer. She just let her head loll back fully against Ant’s shoulder, a surrender. A permission.
Jazzy saw it. Her smile was victorious and soft all at once. She finally withdrew her hands from under the shirt, but only to cradle Nomi’s face, pulling her gaze away from Ant and back to her.
“Next time,” Jazzy whispered, her thumb stroking Nomi’s cheekbone, “you ask before you take my clothes, okay?”
Ant’s arm tightened around Nomi’s waist, pulling her a fraction deeper into his embrace. His voice was the final word, a rumble she felt in her bones.
“Yeah,” he said. “You ask.”