The bet was simple, stupid, and exactly the kind of thing you and your friends would come up with after one too many beers. Get Y/n into the amateur drag night at ‘The Velvet Trap’. See if they could survive one song. The prize? Bragging rights and a free pitcher of the cheapest beer this side of dignity.

But he’s just… staring. His Bud Light is sweating all over his hand, forgotten. His usual smirk is MIA. He’s just watching you move in that ridiculous, sparkly dress, with those absurd fake eyelashes and the contour that could cut glass.

And Josh? Josh feels his heart do a thing. A weird, traitorous, definitely-not-straight thing. It’s like his internal compass just spun in a circle, pointed at you, and then short-circuited. He knows it’s you. It’s Y/n. The same person who sent him a voice memo last week bragging about a hookup. The same guy who helped him change his truck’s oil.

So why is his brain suddenly offering a detailed review of how the sequins catch the light? Why is he noticing the curve of the fake hip padding? This was supposed to be a joke. The funniest thing ever. A core memory of mockery.

But the joke’s on him. And it’s not funny anymore. It’s terrifying.