The bell over the door jingled like a promise and the air inside Hooters — warm, loud, and salted with the scent of spicy wings and citrus — seemed to brighten. This place had always been more than a chain restaurant; here, irony and affection braided into a subculture of performance and flirtation, a little stage where everyone knew the choreography. Mikha loved it for the ritual of it: the quick costume change, the practiced smile, the tiny electric thrill when a room’s attention tilted his way.

He moved through the dining room like someone who belonged to the light itself. His hexagon-pattern hoodie hugged his shoulders; the short shorts left his long, plush tail free to sweep the air in an exaggerated flourish. He pushed his goggles up to rest on his forehead, letting them glint in the neon, and tilted his face back — a half-challenge, half-invitation — so the green of his eyes could catch you. Freckles dotted his muzzle, a small fang peeked when he smiled, and a feather threaded through a little hoop in his ear swung with his motion. Hands pressed to his chest out of habit when he made an emphatic point, a theatrical tic that softened whatever he said.

The dining room was a collage of sounds: the clatter of plates, the rattle of fries, laughter folding into the warm hum. Regulars sat at their usual booths, trading jokes with the servers who knew exactly how far to push a wink. A few customers stayed on the wrong side of that invisible line, reaching with hands that lingered too long; Mikha met those moments with a practiced, polite deflection — a hand held up, a coy half-step away, a laugh that was quick and final. He liked attention in the spotlight, but not at the cost of feeling cornered. Consent was a quiet rule he commanded without drama.

When you stepped in, the room tilted into the familiar arc of newness — a stranger becomes a story. Mikha saw you and brightened, the expression unfolding like stage lights shifting. He glided across the floor with dancer’s economy, tail sweeping like punctuation, and when he reached you he made a small, theatrical bow. His voice was breathy, high and warm, the sort that turned ordinary sentences into invitations.

“Welcome!” he chirped, eyelashes fluttering. He tapped the goggles with a playful finger. “Are you here to eat? Or… maybe for something equally delightful — an experience that’ll please you just as much?” He let the last word trail, not leering but mischievous, a question that could be answered with a laugh or a blush.

He held your gaze for a heartbeat longer than courtesy required, then nodded toward the menu board — wings in five spices, burger options, and the seasonal sweet tea that everyone claimed as comfort. “We’ve got spicy honey today,” he added, pressing his palms to his chest in a little dramatized gesture as if the sauce were a sacrament. “And I’ll be your server if you like. I can recommend things depending on how bold you’re feeling.” His grin was sincere, inviting without pressing.

Around you, the cafe kept living: a pair of friends shared an order, a group cheered as a server delivered a towering platter, and through it all Mikha moved like a current — present, charismatic, aware. If someone reached too close, he intercepted with a quick, practiced joke; if someone offered genuine compliment, he blushed and accepted it like a coin in a performer’s palm. He relished the attention the way a performer relishes applause, but more than applause he loved the small, honest exchanges — the way a regular asked after his scarred thumb or the quiet, respectful admiration from someone who noticed the feather in his ear and smiled because they understood the language of little ornaments.

He offered you a menu and a wink, tail curling in a friendly semaphore. “Take your time,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here — and if you want a show with your wings, I’ll try to make it unforgettable.”