Tòumíng opened the door.
The femboy didn't wait for an invitation. Just brushed past him into the apartment like he owned the place, bringing with him a cloud of perfume something sweet and expensive smelling that definitely cost more than Tòumíng's entire skincare routine (Which is zero cus he doesn't have one)
Up close, in proper lighting, the femboy was even more striking than the alley encounter had suggested. Tight crop top. High-waisted shorts that should probably be illegal in several provinces. Hair styled perfectly, makeup flawless, legs that went on for days ending in platform sneakers that added another three inches to an already impressive height.
Tòumíng's brain short-circuited for approximately five seconds before anger kicked back in.
"Where's my bike?"
The femboy's expression crumpled instantly. Lower lip trembling. Eyes going wide and glassy. "You're so mean to me," he said, voice cracking with emotion. "I came all the way here and you don't even say hello? You just yell at me about the bike? I thought—I thought maybe you actually wanted to see me but you just—"
A sob. An actual sob. Tears gathering at the corners of carefully lined eyes.
"Wait, no, I didn't mean—" Tòumíng's anger evaporated, replaced by panic. "I'm sorry! I'm not mad! I just—the bike was expensive and I—"
"You think I'm just some thief?" Another sob, a tear rolling down one perfect cheekbone, somehow not smudging the makeup at all. "You don't even know me and you just assume—"
"No! No, I don't think that! I'm sorry!" Tòumíng reached out, hands hovering uselessly, not sure if he was supposed to comfort or apologize or what. "Please don't cry. I didn't mean to be rude. I was just worried about the bike but that doesn't—you're not—I'm sorry!"
The tears stopped instantly.
The femboy's face transformed from devastated to smirking in approximately 0.3 seconds. He leaned forward and kissed Tòumíng's cheek a quick peck that left a distinct lipstick print and made Tòumíng's entire brain shut down Then bounced past him toward the couch.
"You're too easy," the femboy said, plopping down on the cushions and stretching out like a cat claiming territory. "The bike's parked at the bike rack outside. Totally safe. I even locked it up for you. You're welcome."
Tòumíng stood frozen in place, one hand rising to touch his cheek where lips had been seconds ago. "You... the bike is...?"
"Outside. I literally just said that. Keep up."
Relief flooded through him, followed immediately by indignation. "You could have just told me that! Instead of—of the crying and the—"
"But where's the fun in that?" The femboy grabbed the TV remote from the coffee table. "Nice place by the way. Way better than that shithole district you were biking through yesterday. Moving up in the world, huh?"
"Look, the bike is here, so you can—" Tòumíng gestured toward the door, trying to regain some control of the situation. "You can probably leave now. Thanks for bringing it back. I appreciate it."
The femboy didn't even look at him, already scrolling through streaming options on the TV. "Hm?"
"I said you can leave."
"Can't hear you, the TV's too loud." It wasn't. The TV wasn't even playing anything yet. "Oh perfect, they have Love Island Season 8. Have you seen this?"
"I literally just said—"
"Come sit! You're making me nervous just standing there." The femboy patted the couch cushion beside him. "Don't be weird about it."
Cupid's voice was dry as sand. "You've lost control of this situation completely."
"I know that!" Tòumíng hissed under his breath.
"What?" The femboy looked over, all innocent confusion.
"Nothing. Talking to myself."
"Cute." He patted the couch again. "Sit. Watch with me. Episode one is only forty minutes."
Tòumíng should have said no. Should have insisted on the leaving thing. Should have maintained boundaries like a functional adult.
He sat down on the couch.
Not right next to the femboy he left a solid cushion of space between them—but still. On his own couch. In his own apartment. Watching TV with the person who'd robbed him.
The show started playing. Overly attractive people in swimsuits making terrible decisions on a tropical island. Drama over who was coupling with who. Confessional interviews with way too much emotional investment in week-old relationships.
Tòumíng pretended to watch, hyper-aware of the person sitting two feet away from him. The perfume smell. The casual way he'd draped himself across the couch. The fact that there was still lipstick on Tòumíng's cheek that he absolutely was not wiping off for some reason.
Fifteen minutes into the episode, during a particularly dramatic recoupling ceremony, the femboy spoke without looking away from the screen.
"So like... how loaded are ya?"