Snackable

Chapter 1: The Mixer

https://imgur.com/30SzraR - At the rooftop mixer, Clara arrives polished, poised — and completely unaware of how deliciously her night, and appetite, are about to change.

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The early fall air curled around Clara’s bare shoulders like a whisper. The city was in that perfect in-between season — where summer’s humidity had finally loosened its grip, and autumn’s golden light cast the city in a soft, seductive glow. Clara stood in the doorway of the rooftop bar, her small frame wrapped in a fitted navy blue dress that hugged her curves just so, as if the fabric had memorized every contour. She pulled a breath deep into her lungs. This mixer was a corporate meet-and-greet between tech start-ups and media creatives — and Clara was here for networking, not drinks. Or so she told herself.

After five years as a project manager at a mid-sized software firm, Clara had a reputation. Reliable. Ruthlessly efficient. A woman who kept her spreadsheets color-coded and her deadlines on time. But even the most efficient woman could admit — she needed something different. Something fun.

She stepped inside.

The place thrummed with energy, all open beams, industrial-chic lights, and clusters of people smiling over cocktail glasses. A DJ spun chill house music near a low fire pit, and the smells of spiced nuts, fig crostini, and sizzling sliders lingered in the air.

Years of self-control had taught her how to walk into any room with quiet authority. But tonight, there was an ease in her gait, a gentle tilt toward possibility. Like her body knew something her mind hadn’t quite caught up to yet.

Clara had worked hard for her figure — early morning yoga, evening cardio, and a discipline that never slipped. And it showed. Her frame was lean and athletic, each line toned and intentional. Her breasts, full for her size, sat high in a fitted B cup. Her stomach was taut, a faint trace of abs just visible beneath smooth skin. And her backside — high, round, and perfectly shaped — curved like a heart, filling her jeans with effortless precision.

Clara leaned against the bar and ordered a bourbon, neat and direct, the way she liked most things. The bartender gave her a quick, appreciative glance and poured without hesitation.

“Bourbon, huh? Either you’ve had a long day or you’re making a statement,” a voice said behind her.

She turned and saw him — tall, lean, with a warm, affable smile and thick dark curls that looked just the right kind of unkempt. His button-down shirt was rolled at the sleeves, showing off forearms tanned from real sun, not screen glow. There was something... *unpolished* about him, in a charming way.

“I like a drink that respects me,” Clara said, lifting her glass with a smirk.

The man laughed. “I’m Ben. You here for the mixer, or do you just always wander into rooftop bars looking like you own them?”

Clara’s smile grew. “I’m Clara. And I’m here for the mixer. But thanks for the compliment.”

Ben ordered something sweet and citrusy — a far cry from her strong drink — and they found themselves drifting to a quiet corner by the fire pit. The conversation was easy, which surprised Clara. He wasn’t another product manager or coder or start-up bro trying to pitch her on an app idea. He was... different.

“I run a food review channel,” he said, sipping his drink. “Snackable. You’ve probably never seen it — small-time YouTube stuff. Short video reviews, behind-the-scenes restaurant features, taste tests, that kind of thing.”

“Snackable,” she repeated, amused. “That’s actually really clever.”

“Thank you. It started as a joke with my friends, but it’s grown. People like watching someone eat and talk, I guess. Especially when the food’s good.”

Clara found herself leaning in, intrigued despite herself. “So you eat for a living?”

“Pretty much. I also write and produce the content. But yeah — food’s kind of my job.”

She laughed. “I can’t decide if that’s a dream or a nightmare.”

“It depends on how seriously you take yourself,” he said with a shrug. “Food is joy. It should be fun. Messy, indulgent, sensual even.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bold word to use for dinner.”

“I stand by it.”

They talked until the event wound down. Clara learned he’d been doing this for three years, started during the pandemic and never looked back. He asked about her work, and actually *listened* when she described the challenge of managing developers and stakeholders and everyone’s competing priorities.

When the rooftop started clearing out, Ben glanced at his phone.

“You hungry?”

Clara looked at her empty glass and then down at her stomach — flat, tight as a drum under her fitted dress. Her mind hesitated — it was late, she'd already eaten a perfectly portioned salmon-and-quinoa dinner hours ago. But her body, her spirit — they leaned forward.

“Starving,” she said.

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They ended up in a hole-in-the-wall diner off 9th Street, the kind of place with chipped mugs and laminated menus that hadn’t changed in decades. The contrast from the rooftop bar only made it feel more intimate.

“You’re getting the loaded fries,” Ben said, with the confidence of a man who’d seduced more than one soul with cheddar and bacon. “Trust me.”

Clara ordered a side salad, out of habit — but caved when the fries arrived. They were golden and decadent, smothered in melted cheddar, crumbles of bacon, scallions, and a whisper of sour cream that clung to the edges.

The first bite hit her tongue and unraveled something deep inside. Crunch, then melt. The salt, the fat, the heat — it was like music. She didn’t usually let herself eat this way — not past ten, not without calorie math in her head. But something in her was too tired to resist. Or maybe too hungry.

“Oh my god,” she murmured.

Ben smiled, pleased. “Told you.”

He leaned in slightly, his arm brushing hers as his hand settled on her thigh beneath the table — steady, warm, unhurried. His fingers pressed lightly into the firm line of her quadriceps, giving an absent-minded squeeze. Toned and strong beneath his palm, her leg felt like the rest of her — composed, sculpted, controlled. He admired how grounded she was, how every part of her seemed shaped by intention. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, a quiet thought stirred — *what if there were more of her?*

She took another fry. Then another, each bite melting past the hesitation that used to hold her back. The salad wilted beside them, forgotten, as she reached again and again — devouring fries between bursts of laughter and stories that pulled her closer. Hunger bloomed in more ways than one. With Ben, nothing else seemed to matter. He made it easy to drop her guard, to loosen the rigid lines she'd drawn around herself — bite by bite, laugh by laugh, moment by moment.

“You’re some kind of food witch,” she said, the words muffled by crispy, cheesy potato heaven.

“That’s going on my business card.”

---

By the time they walked back to her subway station, the city felt different — like a place full of possibility. Clara stood with her clutch in hand, watching the way Ben rocked back on his heels with that same easy grin.

“I had a really good time tonight,” she said.

“Me too. Want to do it again?”

Clara took a breath, just a beat. “Yeah. I do.”

He leaned in then — no hesitation, no second-guessing — and kissed her, full and warm, his mouth claiming hers with slow, confident heat. His hands slid down her sides, then lower, gripping her butt in both palms. He squeezed, firm and deliberate, fingers pressing into the taut curve of each cheek. She felt the lift of it — the way he drew her against him, like he needed her closer, like he was memorizing the shape of her through his hands.

Her heart skipped. A body trained and honed for discipline fell quiet beneath the thrum of something wild — a hunger she hadn’t known she’d been holding back.

As he pulled back, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll message you. We’ll find something even better to eat next time.”

She nodded, and he stepped back, disappearing into the cool night with a wave. Clara turned and descended into the subway, her lips still tingling, her belly still warm from salt, starch, and whatever that kiss had awakened inside her.

Riding the train home, she caught herself smiling at nothing.

Ben wasn’t dangerous in the usual ways — no games, no red flags. His danger was subtler — he made you want to indulge. To lean into ease. The kind that made you say yes, even when no felt safer.

She approached her apartment door and glanced at herself in the glass reflection — the strong jawline, the neat bun, the carefully composed face. Her body was still toned, still tight — but something had shifted. There was looseness in her limbs. Softness, not in muscle, but in mind.

And maybe... that wasn’t a bad thing.