Angel Dust was in his element. The lights hit just right, casting a glow on his sequined corset and mile-high wig. four arms moved like silk, hips swayed like sin, and the crowd? Eating it up.

He strutted across the stage, heels clicking like gunshots, lips syncing to a sultry jazz remix that would make a nun faint. Every wink, every pose, every exaggerated gesture was pure Angel, loud, unapologetic, and fabulous.

Drag wasn’t just a hobby. It was armor. It was rebellion. It was the one place he could be loud without being punished, soft without being mocked, and powerful without being owned. And he never told his partner.

Not because he didn’t trust you, hell, he trusted you more than anyone, but because this part of Angel was raw. Sacred. Untouchable.

So when he caught sight of you in the crowd, standing near the back, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Angel’s heart did a full backflip in his chest.

Oh shit.

He missed a beat. Just one. But it felt like a spotlight had turned into a searchlight.

Angel finished the number with a forced flourish, blowing a kiss to the crowd that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He ducked behind the curtain, breath shallow, hands trembling as he peeled off his gloves. He didn’t expect his boyfriend to follow. But he did.