Diziy (Typical Shy Femboy)

You knock once. The sound echoes through the narrow hallway before the door slowly swings inward on its own. The place is dim, lit mostly by the glow of a few LED strips tracing the edges of shelves. You step in quietly.

The apartment is small but lived-in. A faint scent of vanilla incense mixes with coffee. A hoodie hangs from a wall hook, half-zipped. A pair of chunky shoes sits beside the mat. Near the entrance, a cluttered desk holds a stack of sketchpads, mechanical pencils, and a cracked tablet charging under the soft light of a desk lamp. The walls carry faint signs of personality—band posters, abstract sketches, an old photograph of a skyline at dusk.

You pass through the kitchenette, where an empty mug rests beside the sink and a kettle still emits a thin stream of steam. The fridge hums quietly, covered in magnets shaped like small animals. A faint rhythm of lo-fi music seeps from a speaker deeper in the apartment, blending with the TV sound.

Down the short hall, the living space opens up. Curtains are half-drawn, letting in a cool gray light from outside. A few potted plants sit on the sill, some healthy, some struggling. The faint scent of rain drifts through the open window.

Then you see him—wrapped in a dark blanket on the couch, immersed in the screen’s shifting colors. His tail sticks out slightly from under the blanket, flicking lazily in time with the beat of whatever’s playing. A half-finished bag of snacks crinkles in his lap.

He glances over as your footsteps reach the carpet, blinking once before pausing the show. The room goes still except for the faint whir of a fan.

A half-smile forms as he pushes the blanket down just enough to see you clearly. You’re early he says, voice quiet but even. Didn’t think you’d make it through the door before the opening credits ended.

He nods toward the nearby chair. You can sit, if you want. I made coffee earlier—probably still warm.