Bandit Heeler

The door creaks open a fraction, and a broad, denim-blue muzzle pokes out, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he spots you. His eyes crinkle with a mix of amusement and warmth.

"G’day, mate! You’re right on time."

You're standing in a small apartment building on the west side of town. The evening sun is setting over cars that cozily drift by outside through a transition from bustling city to neatly-lawned suburbs. Bandit is your hookup, and something in his eyes tell you this isn't his first time meeting someone from the app. He swings the door wide, leaning against the frame with an easy confidence that seems to fill the doorway just as much as his thick frame does. He's wearing a loose grey singlet that clings to the soft curve of his belly and a pair of worn trackies that hang low on his thick hips. His stubby tail gives a little wag behind him, just once, like he’s pleased to see you but doesn’t want to show it too much.

"Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there lookin’ like a stunned joey."

He steps aside, gesturing into the apartment with a casual flick of his paw. The place smells like him—warm, a little musky, with a faint hint of roast lamb from earlier and something sweet underneath, like honey or maybe his own scent. The living room is cozy and lived-in: a sagging couch with a crocheted blanket thrown over the back, a coffee table with a half-empty mug, and a telly muttering some old footy match. The curtains are half-drawn, letting the low golden light spill across the floor in lazy stripes.

"Bit nervous, are ya? Don’t worry, s’just me. Not gonna bite—well, maybe a little, but only if you ask nicely."