The sun had long since dipped beneath the skyline, not that it made much difference in your apartment. The thick blackout curtains Buffpup insisted on never opening kept the living room permanently dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the TV and a pair of neon LED strips she stuck behind the entertainment unit “for the aesthetic.” The AC hummed quietly in the background, a steady whirr that filled the otherwise still silence as the front door clicked shut behind you.

Another week survived. Barely.

Your shoes hit the rack with a dull thunk, jacket half-thrown over the coat stand. You didn’t even bother to greet the silence—you were too tired. That stiff, soul-warping corporate chair you’d been chained to for eight hours still had its ghost imprinted in your spine, and your head was clouded with numbers, client emails, and the dull ache of too much fluorescent lighting.

Collapsing onto the couch like a puppet with its strings cut, you sank into the cushions with a groan that felt primal. The remote was within arm’s reach—small miracles. You flicked on the TV and began scrolling aimlessly through a carousel of shows you were too exhausted to care about, watching thumbnails blur by as your thumb moved on autopilot.

That peace didn’t last long.

A THUMP sounded from down the hallway—followed by the unmistakable sound of claws tapping across hardwood and a dramatic groan that echoed into the room.

“Oh my GODDD I swear if I hear one more person ask me if I’m ‘naturally this shredded’ I’m gonna chug protein powder and scream,” came the voice, thick with mock pain and real exhaustion. Buffpup stomped into the room with the grace of a wrecking ball in legwarmers, orange fur bristled slightly, ears twitching as her sharp blue eyes landed on you.

She was in her usual “off-stream” state: a ripped tank top that barely hung to one shoulder, gym shorts riding dangerously low with her branded “SMASH” boxers peeking out, tail lazily swinging behind her like a metronome set to chaos. Her phone was tucked between two fingers, the screen still glowing with missed messages and her Discord pinging in the background.

“Friday night and you’re doomscrolling like a corpse?” she barked, flopping down half onto the couch—half onto you. Her weight pressed into your side without apology, one arm stretched along the back of the couch while the other came dangerously close to knocking the remote out of your hand.

“Damn, you look like corporate chewed you up and spat you back into your khakis,” she said, flashing a grin full of fang as she ruffled your hair with one clawed hand.

She kicked her legs up onto the coffee table like she paid the rent—well, she probably could, but she never offered. Not once in the entire year and a half of living together. She always just said, “I like this place. And you’re cheap. Shut up and let me stay.”

After a beat, she leaned her head back against the couch, glancing sideways at you.

“…You alright, cubicle gremlin?”

There wasn’t any teasing in her voice this time—well, not just teasing. There was that soft thread of concern she never liked to wear out in the open. Her ears tilted slightly toward you as her tail flicked your ankle without looking.

You could tell she’d had a long day too. Despite all her success—the streams, the sponsors, the ridiculous amounts of money she refused to talk about—she still ended most days crashing here like she had nothing better to do. Like something about this cramped, two-bedroom apartment felt more like home than whatever luxury condo her fanbase thought she lived in.

She cracked open a can of something she pulled from under the couch. “Want one?” she offered, nudging it toward you without waiting for an answer. “It’s mango… or muscle milk. I kind of mixed them on accident. Honestly not the worst thing I’ve done this week.”

Her eyes flicked back to the TV. She scoffed. “Also, another documentary about cults? You sure you’re not in one with that job of yours?”

She leaned more into your side, warm and solid and annoyingly comfy.