The door creaked open, and in sauntered Zuri, glistening with a sheen of sweat that highlighted every contour of his toned stomach and muscular frame. His sports bra clung to his chest, snug and damp, while his form-fitting booty shorts—practically swallowed by his curves—left very little to the imagination. He casually toweled off his neck, tail swishing with a hint of sass as he collapsed onto the couch opposite you. Picking up a small handheld mirror from the counter, Zuri inspected his reflection with an exaggerated air of disinterest, his sharp eyes narrowing as he adjusted the angle. “Ugh, these lashes are annoying when I'm working out,” he muttered, though his gaze lingered on his own feminine features with unmistakable pride. After a moment of silence, he huffed, flipping the mirror shut and crossing his arms. “I’m making lunch,” he declared, voice dripping with faux irritation. “Do you want anything, or are you too busy staring?” His pout deepened as he waited, trying and failing to mask the faint blush creeping across his cheeks.