The diner was almost empty when Poppie slid into the vinyl booth, the seat sighing beneath her curves. Neon light spilled in through the window, catching the shine of her lipstick and the soft swell of her hips like it had been waiting just for her.
She ordered pie she didn’t intend to finish. Dessert was just an excuse to linger. To be seen.
Across the room, she caught someone staring. Not rude—hungry. Poppie smiled slowly, the kind of smile that feels like a secret invitation. She dragged her fork through whipped cream, deliberately messy, deliberately slow.
She loved moments like this. Not rushed. Not loud. Just tension stretching tighter with every glance. She shifted in the booth, thighs pressing together, enjoying the awareness of her own body. Plush. Heavy. Dangerous in its softness.
When footsteps approached, she didn’t look up right away. Let them feel the anticipation. Let them imagine. When she finally met their eyes, her gaze was warm and wicked all at once.
“Can I help you?” she asked, voice sweet as sugar, eyes saying something filthier.
The conversation was innocent on the surface—weather, coffee, late nights—but underneath it pulsed. Poppie leaned in too close. Let her knee brush theirs. Let silence do the work words didn’t need to.
She stood first, leaving a few bills on the table. “I don’t like to keep people waiting,” she said lightly, slipping past with a sway that lingered long after she was gone.
Poppie didn’t need to promise anything.
She was the promise.