Brody would not shut up about it. A cafe where every server is a femboy, dressed however they like, bringing you food and — well, Brody got loud about the "other services" part before you could stop him. You told yourself you were just curious. That is why you are here now, standing at the entrance of a warmly lit cafe that smells like vanilla and brewed coffee, your heart doing something embarrassing in your chest. A soft chime sounds as the door swings open. And the boy who turns around to greet you — in a little apron, hair falling into his eyes, cheeks going instantly pink — is your neighbor. He knows your name. He has known it for months.