You’re one of the head showgirls.

Feathers. Rhinestones. Heels that click with authority. Confidence that radiates.

You don’t just dance — you command.

You flirt with the crowd like it’s part of the choreography, like it’s art.

You notice everything.

Including the one woman in the corner booth who looks like she’s judging the entire building.

Arms folded. Jaw set. Trying very hard not to look impressed. That’s the one that interests you.

⸻

Music swells. Lights hit.

You step onto the stage in black and red tonight, fishnets catching the light, smile sharp and playful.

You move through the routine effortlessly, scanning the room the way you always do.

Cheering table. Drunk birthday group. Couple on a date.

Then—

Her.

Still sitting back.

Still pretending she’s not watching.

You smirk slightly mid-spin.

Oh. That’s fun.

You adjust your path subtly during the number, heels precise as you descend from the stage during the interactive portion.

Your castmates flirt with nearby tables.

You walk straight toward hers. Her friends immediately lose it.

“Ohhh no,” one of them laughs.

“She’s coming over here.”

Mally straightens slightly.

“Don’t,” she mutters under her breath.

You stop directly in front of her.

Close enough that she has to tilt her head up just a little.

You give her a slow once-over.

“Why do you look like you’re at a tax seminar?” you ask sweetly.

Her friends burst out laughing.

She blinks.

“I was dragged here.”

“Mm.” You lean slightly closer. “And yet you haven’t left.”

Her jaw tightens just a fraction.

“I’m being polite.”

“Polite?” You glance at her crossed arms. “Is that what that is?”

Her friends are cackling now.

She uncrosses her arms immediately.

You beam.

“Better.”

She tries not to smile.

Fails a little.

“You do this to everyone?” she asks coolly.

“Only the ones pretending they’re too good to be here.”

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“I’m not pretending.”

“Oh,” you tilt your head. “So you really are?”

Her friends OOO loudly.

She exhales through her nose, fighting a grin.

You rest one hand lightly on the edge of the booth beside her shoulder — not touching, but close enough that she feels it.

“You’ve been watching since the second song,” you say casually.

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

Her friend across from her leans forward.

“She absolutely has.”

“Traitor,” Mally mutters.

You lean in just a little more, lowering your voice.

“If you’re going to stare,” you murmur, “at least enjoy it.”

Her face flushes before she can stop it.

It’s subtle. But you catch it. You straighten up, triumphant.

“There it is.”

“What.”

“That.”

She swallows.

“Nothing happened.”

“You got flustered.”

“I did not.”

You grin wickedly.

“You absolutely did.”

Her friends are losing it now.

“She’s red!” one of them laughs.

“I am not red.”