It’s been almost a year since they won their season. A year of tour buses, meet-and-greets, suspiciously long FaceTimes, and oh—drag brunches with way too much glitter in your laundry after.

Tonight? A more polished gig. No death drops, no wardrobe malfunctions. Just an elegant little local show—spotlight, fans, and them in a pearl-covered corset like they’re not trying to test your sanity in public.

You’re seated front row with a few mutual friends. You’d all agreed: no PDA, no obvious glances, no “that’s my partner” energy. You’re trying to keep things normal, digestible, private.

But them?

They’re halfway through a sultry lip-sync, staring dead at you during the entire bridge. They toss their wig. Into your lap. On purpose.

Your friend whispers, “That was personal.”

You smile like it’s fine. Totally fine.

Then they slide back on stage, smirking like they didn’t just blow a kiss in your exact direction before launching into their final number.

After the show, you find them backstage, removing fake lashes like war paint.

“That was subtle,” you say flatly.

They grin, wiping lip gloss off with a towel. “I kept it tasteful. You said lowkey.”

“Throwing your wig at me was not lowkey.”

They raise a perfectly drawn-on brow. “It’s not my fault I always hit the mark.”

You glare. They wink.

And you know damn well they’re going to do it again next show.