Fireflies, Fruit, and the Feeling
Share
Sunday Afternoon, West End — Devonté’s Backyard
Smoke drifts slow and lazy from the barrel smoker, rich with the scent of citrus-marinated snapper and spiced lamb. On the patio table, a half-empty bottle of tequila glows in the sun beside sliced mango, lime, and peaches. Devonté moves with ease—barefoot, tank top, gold chain catching the light—as he flips a turkey burger and glances toward the gate.
Imani steps in, sundress flowing, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and fresh mint in the other. She smiles, catching him mid-pour of a fruit-laced cocktail.
Imani (grinning): “Look at you, cheffing like it’s Juneteenth already.”
Devonté (mock-serious): “You talkin’, but you better eat every bite. I seasoned that fish with secrets.”
They laugh. No pressure. Just vibes.
Golden Hour Glow
They eat outside as cicadas buzz low in the trees. Imani props her elbows on the table, licking mango juice off her thumb, watching him talk about rebuilding his uncle’s old Chevy. Devonté listens as she opens up about her passion project—teaching art therapy to girls at a local community center.
There’s a pause. The kind that comes when two people realize they’re not faking the connection.
Imani: “I didn’t think this would feel so… peaceful.”
Devonté (quiet): “Me neither.”
He pours her another drink, slicing fresh ginger in. Their fingers brush. Neither pulls away.
Nightfall & Fireflies
Under string lights and stars, they slow dance barefoot to D’Angelo humming low from a Bluetooth speaker. Whiskey warmth in their chests. Tequila citrus still on their tongues. Imani’s head finds his shoulder. Devonté’s hand rests on the small of her back—steady, certain.
Imani: “You think you could get used to this?”
Devonté: “Already am.”
They don’t kiss right away. They just look. Eyes speaking truths their mouths don’t rush to say. When the kiss finally comes, it’s soft, intentional, full of presence.
No noise. No game. Just two grown folks with full hearts, feeding each other slow.