For a moment, there was silence.
A beat. Two.
The echo of the final note rang out like the last bell of judgment. Dianna—Violet—stood still, shoulders heaving, mic gripped like a scepter on the edge of collapse. Her pupils were blown wide, breath caught in the hollow of her chest.
She wasn't sure what would happen next.
And then—hell cracked open.
The room exploded.
Screams, not of terror but worship, shook the sticky floorboards. A man near the bar threw his drink into the air like champagne at New Year's. Ashley was shrieking in some ungodly pitch, and Emily had fallen entirely off the booth, cackling and slapping the floor.
"Oh my God! Oh my GOD, VIOLET!" someone screamed near the stage, voice cracking with awe.
A woman—mid-thirties, heavy eyeliner, vacation drunk—stumbled forward with tear-streaked cheeks and absolutely no shame. "I would die for you," she sobbed, lifting her shirt to flash Dianna like she was front row at a metal concert.
Another man dropped to one knee beneath the stage with the solemnity of a battlefield proposal. "Will you marry me?" he shouted, waving what might've been a cocktail sword like a ring.
Dianna blinked.
What the actual fuck just happened?
But the rush—the roar—the pure animal chaos of it all—it flooded her. She felt ten feet tall. She felt divine. Her chest rose with something too big for breath and too wide for her ribs.
And for one blinding, glittering second…
She let it happen.
She reveled.
Grinning like the devil at a revival, she stepped to the lip of the stage, tilted the mic back, and let her eyes sweep over the writhing crowd like a queen surveying her subjects.
She bared her fangs in full.
"Mortals," she purred, voice still ragged from the scream-sung chorus, "You should thank your Prince."
The crowd lost it.
Someone threw a bra.
But then— Her eyes found Roxie, and everything stopped.
The bar noise cut like a wire had snapped. The air dropped ten degrees. Dianna's stomach fell through her boots and kept falling.
Roxie wasn't cheering. She wasn't clapping.
She was crying.
Standing beside the booth, hands clenched at her sides, eyes glassy and wide—Roxanna Paraveesh Shapiro looked like a statue cracked by lightning. Her face was unreadable save for the tears cutting tracks down her cheeks.
And Dianna—
Shitting fuck.
Her breath caught in her throat, the smile fell from her face like a mask hitting concrete.
No. No no no no no.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen.
She was supposed to be smiling. Laughing. Shoving her shoulder like damn girl that was hot. Or maybe just blushing and looking away like she did when someone said she was beautiful.
Not this.
Not this trembling mess. Not the way she looked at Dianna like she'd just been betrayed by the sky.
Dianna's pulse went nuclear.
Shit I broke her.
She dropped the mic like it burned. Didn't say a word. Didn't even bow. Just vaulted off the stage in two long strides, boots thudding like war drums against the floor. The crowd screamed something—cheers, whistles, another bra being flung like a thrown gauntlet—but it was all white noise. It didn't matter.
Only Roxie did.
She stalked toward her, chest hammering, panic knotting her gut like barbed wire. Every step was a prayer for mercy she didn't believe she deserved.
She thinks I'm crazy.
She thinks I'm a liar.
She thinks I'm a whore playing pretend with things she actually believes in.
She slowed just a few feet from her, unsure if she should speak or fall on her knees. "Roxie…"
Her voice cracked. And Roxie didn't move.
"Roxie…" she tried again, barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean— I was just— I thought maybe it would be funny or—cool or sexy or—fuck, I don't know, okay? I just—"
Roxie stepped forward.
One step. In that sinfully cut halter top and that just perfect suede skirt. She was taller, God, so much taller, and for a heartbeat Dianna felt like a child again, caught in a spotlight, waiting for the slap.
But there was no anger in Roxie's face. No disappointment. Just those ridiculous tears, still quietly sliding down her cheeks.
Then she said it.
"I see it," Roxie whispered, voice raw but steady. "You… all of you. It's the most beautiful thing in the whole fucking world."
And Roxie smiled—small, reverent.
"Thank you for showing me," she said. "I'm honored."
Dianna's mouth parted but no words came and she broke.
It didn't come with warning. No slow cracking open, no dramatic gasp. It was just gone, the armor, the swagger, the careful curation of cool and sharp edges she'd built like a fortress around her heart.
A whimper escaped her. She took one breath. Then another. Then she collapsed into Roxie's arms. Not fainting. Not falling.
Just—folding.
Melting into that soft, warm strength like it was the only safe place on Earth. Her arms wrapped around Roxie's middle, her face buried in her chest. She gripped the fabric of her shirt like a lifeline.
"Jesus fucking Christ," she whispered, breath shaking. "Why do you do this to me?"
And Roxie, ever gentle, ever steady, just held her.
Held her like a prayer. Held her like she already knew the answer. They stayed like that for a long breath. Maybe two. The crowd had faded to background noise again—just murmurs and distant whoops, like echoes in a cathedral no longer meant for worship.
Dianna sniffled hard against Roxie's chest. "Don't say things like that, goofy."
And Roxie, still crying, still trembling, let out a choked laugh.
"Then don't do things like that!" she hissed, half-accusation, half-sob.
They both laughed then—wet and cracked and ridiculous.
Dianna pulled back just enough to look up at her, eyes rimmed in red and eyeliner in disarray. Her lips were parted, her breath catching in stutters.
"You looked like a painting," she whispered, voice small and shattered. "Like a lost cathedral girl come to save the monster."
Roxie's brow furrowed, her hand finding the side of Dianna's face.
"And you…" she said, voice thick with something sacred, "you sounded like every choir I ever dreamed of."
Another beat passed between them, too full for words.
Then Dianna hiccuped.
Actually hiccuped.
"…I think I'm gonna barf or kiss you."
Roxie went very, very still.
And the silence returned—but this time, it was charged. Roxie went rigid.
As if someone had yanked a power cable out of her spine.
Her cheeks, already flushed, went full critical. A beat-red surge bloomed from her collarbones up to the tips of her ears. Her mouth opened—closed—opened again. Nothing came out but a small, squeaky hhgnnk noise.
Dianna blinked.
Then smirked. Just a little.
"Oh my God," she murmured, nose nuzzling against Roxie's chest now, voice muffled by the soft terrain. "That's the noise you make when you're short-circuiting. That's amazing. I'm gonna bottle that."
Roxie, still locked up, made a helpless keening sound.
Dianna didn't push. She didn't even move. Just curled tighter, like this was exactly where she was meant to be. Her arms wrapped snug around Roxie's waist, cheek smooshed into holy sanctuary.
"Don't worry, Rox," she whispered, eyes fluttering shut, a smile curling sleepily on her lips. "I won't kiss you yet."
She gave a content little sigh.
"Not 'til you're ready. But I am gonna keep cuddling these tits, if that's alright with the Lord."
Roxie whimpered.
Somewhere behind them, Ashley could be heard howling "QUEEN OF THE DAMNED!!" while Tiny shouted something about "a spiritual experience." But the noise was irrelevant.
In that moment, it was just them. Sacred and stupid and wrapped in each other like it might save the world.
And for the first time in what felt like years—
Dianna felt at peace.
---
Cut to Jorge.
He sat slack-jawed, mouth halfway open around a mozzarella stick he no longer remembered picking up. His eyes locked on the pair of them—Roxie cradling Dianna like a trembling, blushing statue of some forgotten love goddess, Dianna clinging like her entire emotional support system was boobs and poetry.
"Oh my God," Ashley whispered, leaning over the table with both hands covering her mouth. "That's so cute it's actually illegal."
Emily groaned and flopped face-down onto the table. "I'm gonna vomit. Like, from joy. But still. Full-blown, Technicolor barf."
Tiny, sipping from a ridiculous fishbowl cocktail, raised a single brow. "I ain't even mad. That was the most powerful karaoke confession I've ever seen. On both sides."
Elizabeth, dignified as always, adjusted her scarf and took a sip of her wine before murmuring, "Is it still technically 'not dating' if you cause a public emotional collapse with your love? Because I feel like we're skirting that line."
Jorge laughed weakly. "Yeah, ha-ha, totally skirting…"
But something was wrong.
His laugh didn't reach his eyes.
Because as the others kept cackling, cooing, and calling out teasing remarks like "Someone get those two a room or a therapist" and "I swear I saw Roxie's soul leave her body just now", Jorge sat very, very still.
His brain was already rewinding. Spooling back to an hour ago.
The suggestion.
The sign-up.
That little whisper he dropped in Booth Guy's ear:
"Hey, I got a funny one for you. Put her down as Violet's girlfriend. No warning. Just trust me."
A harmless prank.
A nudge. An icebreaker.
A way to maybe, maybe, break the tension between two idiots who kept orbiting each other like shy planets too scared to touch.
But now—
Now Roxie was crying and Dianna was clinging and the entire bar was acting like they'd just witnessed a live wedding proposal.
And Booth Guy?
Gone. Nowhere to be seen. The little clipboard left behind, forgotten.
Jorge's face paled like someone had drained his blood through his sneakers.
"No… no no no no no…"
He looked at the others.
They were still razzing them.
He looked back at the stage.
Roxie and Dianna—soul-bound, tit-bound, meltdown adjacent.
Then back at the clipboard.
"Mierda," he whispered.
"Ay Dios mío…"
And with dawning horror—
He realized he might've just accidentally set off the emotional equivalent of a tactical nuke.
Jorge was mid-panic, eyes darting between the clipboard and the slowly sobering barroom scene, when Booth Guy reappeared like a minor deity summoned by chaos itself.
"Hey, man!" the guy chirped, cheeks flushed with pride and half a buzz, holding up a Mountain Dew like it was communion wine. "That was hilarious! Nailed it!"
He gave Jorge a hearty slap on the back and a double thumbs-up before Jorge could even open his mouth.
Booth Guy was already moving.
"No. Wait. No-no-no," Jorge stood up so fast his chair clattered behind him. "Hey! Hey, my dude, my guy! Abort! Cancel! That was supposed to be before the meltdown! PRE-meltdown content!"
But the man was deaf to reason, drunk on citrus soda and the unearned power of holding a mic.
He reached the stage, swigged the last of his drink, and tapped the mic with gleeful swagger.
"Alright folks!" he called, voice booming through cheap speakers. "Let's give it up one more time for VIOLET, our undead darling of the damned!"
The crowd—still dazed from the last performance—cheered. A few folks whistled. Someone screamed "I'd join your harem!!"
Booth Guy grinned.
"And now—since someone woke up the vampire queen's emotional side—let's cool things off with a special request."
Jorge was physically vibrating with panic. "No, please no, do not—"
"Coming to the stage now—her very real, very spoken-for girlfriend…"
Dianna's head snapped up.
Roxie made a noise like a record skipping inside a blender.
The Pack froze, like dogs sensing thunder.
"…to perform a tender operatic rendition of I Kissed a Girl by Katy Perry…"
Jorge lunged forward.
Too late.
Booth Guy finished with a wink.
"Sorry, folks—the vampire queen is taken."
The lights shifted.
The crowd exploded.
And Jorge knew—knew—that he had just thrown a live grenade into a glass house made of feelings.
Booth Guy wasn't done.
Not even close.
"Oh, and we're not just talking any girl, ladies and gentlemen," he purred, spinning like a washed-up Broadway host halfway through his fourth rum and Coke. "No, no, no…"
He pointed—dramatically, accusingly—at Roxie.
Her eyes widened. Her soul visibly attempted to crawl out of her body.
"This goddess of glory! This titan of temptation! This paragon of power and patriotism!"
Roxie was shaking her head. Mouthing no. Then please. Then just silently begging God to strike her dead on the spot.
Jorge had gone utterly still at the booth, one hand clapped over his mouth like he was watching a puppy walk onto a freeway.
Booth Guy spun again, finger still locked on his mark.
"This is not a girl—no! She is an experience! A force of nature! A radiant Amazon carved from the bones of stardust and liberty!"
Ashley choked on her drink.
Tiny had slid halfway under the table, laughing so hard his necklace beads jingled like windchimes in a hurricane.
Elizabeth turned slowly to Jorge, brow arched so high it could have cut glass.
Booth Guy wasn't finished.
"Please welcome to the stage—THE Roxanna! The Red Muse! The holy hurricane who slew our vampire queen's heart and left her begging for more!"
He threw both hands up.
"Give it up for VIOLET'S GIRLFRIEND, ladies and gentlemen!!"
The crowd roared.
And Roxie—
Roxie made a tiny sound.
Something between a prayer and a dying modem. Roxie's face went white.
Not blushing. Not shy.
Just blanked out—like her soul hit a blue screen.
Dianna blinked.
Once. Twice.
And then it hit her. Hard.
"Oh. Oh no."
Roxie was shaking her head, mouth falling open, hands twitching at her sides like she was trying to pull herself apart at the seams.
"Bu—bu-but I don't—ehhh I don't sing!" she croaked, voice climbing into a register no grown woman should ever reach. "I didn't sign up for anything! He said Violet! I didn't—I've never kissed anybody!"
Her eyes snapped to Dianna, wild with panic.
"Girlfriend?! I mean—wahh?! What do I do?! What do I do?!"
Dianna was already on her feet. She grabbed Roxie's shoulders, grounding her.
"Hey. Hey. Look at me."
Roxie did. Barely.
She looked like a puppy about to be yeeted into space.
"Okay," Dianna said, voice dropping low and steady. "You're not going up there."
"But they—he said—I—opera?!?"
"Nope," Dianna said, jaw setting. "You're not doing it. You're not singing. We're gonna find Booth Guy, and then I'm gonna make him eat his own mic."
Behind them, Ashley was shrieking with laughter, and Emily was halfway filming the whole thing on her phone, whispering "Oh my God, the opera virgin meltdown—this is content."
But Dianna wasn't laughing anymore.
Because this wasn't funny.
Roxie was terrified.
And Dianna—Violet, Prince of the Damned or not—would burn this bar down before she let someone mock her girl like that.
Even if her girl hadn't technically said the word yet.
But Roxie, Roxie was willing to try. Jorge has done it and he was awful so maybe she could do it too.
Roxie stood.
Slowly.
Like a woman walking herself to the gallows.
Her knees wobbled. Her hands trembled at her sides. The heels—low and cute and utterly foreign—felt like stilts beneath her. But still, she stood.
Dianna blinked. "Roxie…?"
Roxie didn't look at her.
"I could try," she murmured, mostly to herself. "I mean… maybe I could. I want to. I just…"
She took one step.
Then another.
The crowd was still murmuring, some still laughing, some just watching with half-hearted curiosity. The spotlight was back on the stage. Booth Guy was chatting up the bartender, blissfully unaware of the oncoming apocalypse.
Ashley whispered, "Wait, is she actually gonna—?"
But Roxie wasn't listening.
She was moving.
Barely.
Like gravity had doubled around her. One foot in front of the other, toward a mic she had never asked for. For a girl she wanted to be brave for.
Dianna reached for her, but hesitated.
Roxie was halfway across the bar floor when it hit.
Bzt.
The low static snap, so soft no one else noticed. The smallest flicker of sound, brushing her scalp where the receiver lay tucked behind her ear.
"Dispatch to T-1."
Her heart stopped.
No.
"We have a request for Enhanced intervention. Possible Cape-involved incident near 34th Street and 22nd Avenue South. Southbound traffic currently being diverted."
No. Please.
"Immediate deployment authorized."
Roxie's breath hitched.
And then she turned.
Fast. Clumsy. Heels slipping, body pitching forward, catching herself with a hand against a chair.
Dianna stepped forward, startled.
"Roxie?"
But Roxie didn't answer.
She was already moving. Already running.
Not toward the stage.
Toward the door.
Her hand caught the exit bar and she vanished into the night with a gust of warm, salt-slick wind.
The bar stared.
Elizabeth sat up straighter, concern flickering across her brow.
Ashley frowned. "Did she just—?"
"She ran," Emily whispered, confused.
Tiny stood, blinking. "Why'd she run?"
Dianna didn't move.
She just stood there.
Staring at the door.
Like it had just taken her whole world with it.