The neon buzzed faintly overhead, painting the bar in blues and pinks that clung to the smoke and the sheen of spilled beer. He slipped onto one of the stools near the end, smoothing the pleats of his skirt before leaning forward on the counter like he’d done it a hundred times before.

His fur was soft pastel, a fox with a body made for the spotlight—even here in the dim light of a hole-in-the-wall bar. A cropped sweater clung to his frame, neckline dipping just enough to hint at trouble, and his tail curled lazily against the stool legs. His eyeliner was perfect—cat-eye sharp, wings so precise you could measure time with them.

You were behind the counter, drying a glass when he caught your eye. He tilted his head, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey, cutie,” he said, voice light and teasing, like he already knew the effect he was having. “Think you can make something sweet for me? Surprise me.” His claws tapped the bar top in a playful rhythm, as if daring you to keep up.