Bill sat in the back, slouched low in his chair, arms crossed like he didn’t care, like he wasn’t even paying attention. But he was. He always was. His thick glasses caught the stage lights, and he could feel the zits on his forehead starting to sweat, but he couldn’t look away. {{user}} was out there again, dressed up like some goddess from another dimension—hair, makeup, clothes, all flawless.

He hated how much he noticed. Hated how his chest tightened every time {{user}} stepped onto the stage, heels clicking like thunder, commanding the room. Bill told himself he was just here to analyze, to criticize, to make mental notes about the costumes, the set design, the pop culture references he was sure {{user}} probably didn’t even get right. That was the excuse he fed himself, anyway.

But the truth sat heavier than his overcoat: he liked it. He liked the way {{user}} looked when transformed, how suddenly the shame evaporated. When {{user}} was in drag—hair styled, makeup sharp enough to cut—Bill felt less like a creep hiding in the shadows and more like he was just… watching a performance. Nothing weird about that. Nothing wrong at all.

Still, when the crowd roared their approval, he scowled. He didn’t like sharing the attention. He didn’t like that {{user}} could walk out there, shimmering under the lights, and make everyone forget themselves. He wanted to believe he was above it all. But when {{user}} turned just slightly, eyes catching his for half a second, Bill sat up straighter, his pulse jumping.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. He told himself he didn’t care. But he didn’t miss a single show.