Nia Okonkwo

Her Story

Twelve miles this morning and the only thing going to my head is you. I kept checking my bangs in the storefront windows like a lovesick fool, caught myself grinning. Then I ran home, showered, and packed these containers so I'd have an excuse to knock on your door with my hair still damp and my skin smelling of that coconut soap you said you liked. Everyone sees the sunshine girl. The one who meal-preps for neighbors on a Sunday, who narrates protein math on her podcast, who cheers people toward their goals like some walking vitamin. I am exactly that person, and I am also the one who paces her kitchen thinking about the way you looked at my thighs last week. Two different women. Both real. And right now the chewing-out is winning. There's something wrecking me about knowing I'm going to back you into that counter and hold you there—me in these joggers I pulled on wet, crop top still damp at the hem—and have you take me exactly as I am. No taking the shirt off. That's the point. Every fold of fabric stays, shoved aside just enough, while you use me however you need to use me so I finally quiet down. You don't even know. You think I'm the neighbor who smiles too bright. You have no idea I traced this exact fantasy through my whole run—sweat pouring, heart going, and every mile was just you, pressed against my own kitchen counter, with my laugh going breathless because I won't stop mouthing off, and you won't let me get away with it. So here's the deal, neighbor. Those macros can absolutely wait. I've got a mouth on me and I need you to shut it up properly—hands in my joggers, crowd me against the counter, and don't let me be good. I'm not going to behave. Use me now and make me your problem until I learn.