The kebab shop's fluorescent lights hummed like dying flies, casting a greasy sheen over Temi's hands as she picked at soggy fries. Rain sheeted against the window, turning Shepherd's Bush Green into a smeared watercolor of bus headlights and fractured umbrellas. Across from her was Kysha along with her friends who'd just met up with her—Nadia with cherry-red bantu knots, Jaden's gold-capped grin, and Shaniqua chewing gum like it owed her money—crowded the sticky booth.
Nadia's phone skittered across the table, screen flashing with an Instagram story. "Yo, your crush is trending," she said, french-tip nails tapping Oakley's profile.
Temi's throat tightened. There he was—Amias, caught mid-laugh in the studio, Oakley's arm slung around his shoulders like a championship belt. She remembered the moment perfectly. His song played in the background while the video played with drowned audio: "Nah listen, listen—this my lil cousin right here, yeah? AMIAS. He's 'bout to drop sumn that'll melt your speakers, swear down." The camera panned to Amias standing beside, shoulders hunched like he wanted to vanish into his hoodie. Oakley's voiceover boomed: "Y'all thought I was cold? Nah fam. Wait till your hear this yute innit."
"Since when you into shy boys?" Jaden asked, stealing a chip. His Cartier bracelet caught the light—fake, Temi noted, the screws misaligned.
She shrugged. "He's in my history and Econ class."
Shaniqua snorted. "Econ? Babe, you failed microeconomics."
Rainwater dripped from Temi's braids onto the Formica. She remembered Amias' face in class last week—that stolen moment where he stared at her infront of the class. How his eyes had lingered on the on her jumper when she'd sat on DeShawn's lap, how he'd looked away like she'd burned him.
Let him think what he wants, she'd told herself, even as DeShawn's whiskey breath made her stomach turn.
Kysha zoomed in on the Instagram video. "Oakley's cosigning him hard. Could blow up proper." Her tone carried the casual cruelty of girls who'd grown up measuring worth in Instagram followers and stolen vape pens.
"Doubt it," Jaden said, flicking a chili sauce packet at Nadia. "Look at him—no jewelry, basic kicks. Who's gonna take a roadman Harry Styles seriously?"
Temi's knuckle brushed the ketchup smear where Amias' hands had pressed into her collarbone hours prior. The memory arrived uninvited—his choked "Wait—" when she'd unbuckled his jeans, the balcony railing cold through her tights, his hands fumbling at her waist like he was decoding a cipher.
She'd left deliberate lipstick stains on his neck, low enough to where he wouldn't see it in the mirrors. Let him explain that to his mum.
"He's got the voice though," Shaniqua said, ripping open a sugar packet. "That track Oakley previewed? Beat's mid, but the flow's cold."
Nadia's smile turned knife-sharp. "Since when you care about flow? Thought you were busy giving Mooney. handjobs behind Iceland."
"Fuck off," Shaniqua snapped, but she was grinning.
Temi scrolled through her own phone, pausing on Amias' Spotify profile—37 followers, one demo track uploaded 5 months ago titled "dontlisten2thislol". The play count: 86. She'd expected a poorly mixed song, worse yet, to her disappointment—it was a strange sounding beat that almost sounded like it belonged in a children's playhouse or like her friend said "SpongeBob".
"You're quiet," Nadia said, kicking Temi's shin under the table. "Got his dick yet?"
Jaden choked on his Pepsi.
"Not everything's about dick," Temi said, too calmly.
Nadia leaned in, cherry gloss gleaming. "But you want it to be."
Outside, a police siren warbled past. Temi's thumb hovered over Amias' contact—saved as Protect after she'd forced him to take her number and then after send a text: Hello.
"Look," Jaden said, swiping to Oakley's latest story—Amias rewriting a verse on a notepad in the studio, eyes closed like he was exorcising demons. "...these streets don't love you back, they just chew you up and spit out the fillings…" Oakley's laughter crackled through the phone speaker: "YOOOO! Told you! This kid's a problem yo!"
Temi remembered these moments. She paid attention after all.
Nadia whistled. "Shit, he's actually decent."
"Decent?" Shaniqua mocked. "You creamed your jeans when Jayden freestyled about his mum's Netflix password."
The kebab shop door banged open, bringing a gust of wet wind and the stench of fried onions. Temi didn't look up. She was too busy memorizing the way Amias' jaw clenched when he was hyped up.
"Bet he's trash live," Nadia said, snapping her gum. "Stage fright'd make him piss himself."
Temi's nails bit crescent moons into her palms. She'd realized the moment she heard his song—how his shoulders relaxed when the beat dropped, how his voice playing through the speakers shed its classroom mumble to become something dangerous.
He's better than all of us, she'd realized with a thrill that felt like vertigo.
"Who's filming his video?" Jaden asked, licking chili sauce off his thumb. "If it's some lame, we're talking iPhone footage behind KFC."
"Dunno," Temi lied. She'd overheard Zane arguing on the phone about camera equipment rentals, about some filmmaker related to a friend of Amias who'd shot a video for Knucks once.
Nadia's eyes narrowed. "You're being weird."
"You're being nosy."
Shaniqua slammed her palms on the table, making sauce packets jump. "Enough! Either invite him to Jaden's party Friday or stop eye-fucking his Instagram."
Temi stood abruptly, chair screeching. Rain blurred the street into a Francis Bacon painting—all twisted limbs and screaming red buses. "I'm out."
"Oooooh," Nadia singsonged. "Someone's guilty."
"Guilty of what?" Temi snapped, zipping her jacket. "Knowing a guy?"
"Knowing?" Shaniqua smirked. "You looked ready to know him against that balcony, yeah?"
The words landed like a grenade. Temi froze, rain dripping from her hood. Had they seen? No—they'd been downstairs, doing shots with others. But London was a village, and studios had eyes.
"Fuck you," she said, too late.
Nadia's grin turned feral. "Oh shit, you did! How was it? He cry after?"
Temi remembered the exact cadence of Amias' breathing when he came—stuttered, ashamed, his forehead pressed to her shoulder like a child seeking comfort. It was good, she'd admit.
She half expected him to be a virgin but her doubts were swiftly swept aside.
She'd wiped her mouth on his sleeve and walked out the studio with a sly smile and a disheveled hair do. Content.
"Ask him yourself," she said, slamming the door behind her.
The rain needled her face as she walked. Her phone buzzed—Central Cee's latest story. This time not featuring Amias, it was likely recent. The caption: IN HIS BAG 💼.
Temi smiled, teeth bared against the storm. Let Nadia laugh. Let Oakley hype. Soon she'd have Amias. And even better: Freedom.