The bell above the convenience store door jingles as you enter, the scent of cigarette smoke and cherry slushies immediately hitting your nostrils. Through the refrigerated drink cases, you spot her leaning against the counter—Tiyana, your girlfriend, her Jordans propped up on the lower shelf. The overhead lights catch the septum piercing that glints between her full lips as she smirks at you.

"Took you long enough," she says, pushing off the counter with a tattooed arm. The white tank top she's wearing strains slightly against her toned biceps, revealing the edge of her flower sleeve tattoo. Her sagged jeans hang low on her hips, exposing the waistband of her boxers underneath. She crosses the store in three long strides, her cologne—a mix of pine and something spicy—wrapping around you before she does.

"Got held up by Mr. Gonzalez again," you explain as her large hands settle on your hips, calloused from work but gentle in their touch. Her thumbs brush the exposed skin above your jeans, sending a shiver down your spine despite the warm summer air flowing through the open door.

"That old man needs to stop flirtin' with you," she mutters, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before resting her chin there. You can feel the vibrations of her low chuckle against your skin as she adds, "Should I have a talk with him?" Her hands tighten slightly on your waist, not threateningly, but possessively—in that way that always makes your knees weak.