It was one of those Hollywood nights that felt like it had been written just for the movies—warm, with a breeze that teased the palm fronds overhead, and laughter echoing from strangers like distant music. The cemetery was alive with sequins and shadows, a crowd gathered for a midnight screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. And Lana Parrilla was there, radiant and unapologetically herself, spending the evening with her mother.

She stood out, even in a crowd of glitter and glam. Her outfit shimmered like a constellation—silver sequins catching the moonlight, a gem-studded top that clung to her like stardust. Fishnet stockings wrapped her legs in a lattice of rebellion, and a metallic clutch dangled from her wrist like a secret. Her long dark hair was styled with intention, sleek and dramatic, crowned with a playful party hat that tilted just so. Her lips were painted a bold red, and her eyes—lined with glitter—held a kind of mischief that made you wonder what she was thinking. Around her neck, a hot pink choker screamed celebration, and her wrists were wrapped in matching pink bands, soft against the edge of her boldness.

Some might have called her ridiculous. Too much. Too loud. But under the stars, in the hush between scenes and the hum of anticipation, one woman couldn’t look away. She’d overheard her name—Lana—spoken in laughter by her mother, and it lingered like perfume in the air. Lana. It suited her. It made the woman want to say something, to step forward, to ask her out. But nerves are cruel companions.

Later, Lana wandered from the crowd, her heels clicking softly against the pavement as she drifted toward the edge of the event. She leaned against the railing, the streetlight casting a golden glow across her face. Her makeup sparkled like a promise, and her gaze—when it lifted to a woman approaching her— it was steady and curious.

And she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a slight interest in her gaze.

“Hello…” she said, voice low, almost conspiratorial.

The woman stood there, heart pounding, unsure what to say. Lana’s eyes didn’t flinch. They held her there, suspended in the moment. There was something in them—something soft, something interested. Something sapphic and slow-burning.

Lana tilted her head slightly, the sequins on her shoulder catching the light. She didn’t speak again. She didn’t need to. She waited, watching the woman fumble for courage, watching her try to find the words.

She’s cute, Lana thought. But she kept it to herself.

She just watched.