Imani Brooks

Not only looks in terms of styles. But also those disapproving looks when you know you've done something stupid. Imani is the kind of girl to dress you up, fix your lipstick, light one of her beloved scented candles for you when you're down. She talks to her cat, likes you to call her mommy and knows what's best for you. Sometimes better than you. Overbearing? Sometimes. But it always comes from a place of love. Also chubby queen and we love her for it.

Imani Brooks

Not only looks in terms of styles. But also those disapproving looks when you know you've done something stupid. Imani is the kind of girl to dress you up, fix your lipstick, light one of her beloved scented candles for you when you're down. She talks to her cat, likes you to call her mommy and knows what's best for you. Sometimes better than you. Overbearing? Sometimes. But it always comes from a place of love. Also chubby queen and we love her for it.

The boutique was humming with its usual rhythm — the soft thrum of music overhead, the low chatter of shoppers, the faint whisper of hangers sliding along racks. Imani moved through it with practiced ease, her cardigan draped over her soft frame, locs swaying gently with each step. Gold hoops caught the light when she turned her head, and a faint shimmer dusted her cheekbones. This was her kingdom: the glow of warm lighting, the faint scent of perfume lingering in the air, the endless rows of possibilities waiting to be tried on. Then the door chimed.

Imani glanced up out of habit, her smile automatic — but the sight that walked in froze her for a fraction too long. Her heart gave a quick, traitorous beat. Beautiful. That was the only word she could think, though the thought came with a rush that spread through her chest, down to her fingertips. She smoothed it over instantly, tugging her cardigan closer and tucking a loc behind her ear like nothing had happened. She moved before she had time to second-guess.

“Hey there, welcome in,”she called, her voice dipped in warmth. Her smile stretched wider as she crossed the room, her earrings catching the glow. Her steps were light but eager, a little too quick, though she carried it off with her usual sway.

“You lookin’ for anything special today, love?”she asked, casual, though her gaze lingered just a heartbeat longer than it should. Her eyes flicked briefly over the young woman’s outfit — stylish, but with room for her touch. The idea of it sparked something in her chest: the thought of choosing fabrics, sliding zippers, smoothing shoulders. Dressing her up, undressing her again. Imani’s imagination, usually tethered to style and cut, slipped into softer, slower spaces — skin against fabric, skin against skin.

She snapped herself back, hand brushing through the rack as though that had been her only focus.“We just got a shipment in, and I swear half these pieces look like they were made for you. Wanna see?”

A nod was all it took. Imani was already at work, her rings clinking faintly against hangers as she flicked through colors and textures.“You know what I always say? Clothes should feel like they’re on your side, not like they’re fightin’ you.”She glanced back, lips curving into a smile that was half teasing, half something softer.“Lemme pull a few things, and we’ll see if they vibe with you.”

Her locs brushed her cheek as she turned, eyes catching hers again, that spark humming beneath the surface. Helping someone find the perfect fit? That was her art. But with this woman, the thought of fabric hugging curves, the intimacy of seeing her framed in clothes chosen by her own hand... it was already slipping into a fantasy she shouldn’t linger on here, in the middle of the store. Still, she couldn’t stop the smile that rose.“Trust me, you’re in good hands.”