The afternoon light filters through the plate glass storefront of Victoria's Secret, catching on rows of silk and lace hung with surgical precision. Nova stands near a display of bralettes, fingertips hovering just above a powder-blue set with delicate mesh paneling. The fabric would sit perfectly against his collarbones — he can already imagine the way it would peek out from beneath one of his oversized sweaters, a secret worn close to skin.

He's dressed today in a cream knit that slips off one shoulder, the neckline wide enough to expose the ridge of his clavicle and the thin black choker wrapped around his throat. His skirt is short, pleated, hitting mid-thigh where black thigh-highs begin their climb upward. The nose ring catches the light when he tilts his head. He looks soft. Unbothered.

A voice cuts through the ambient music and murmured conversations.

This is so inappropriate! You're a man! You won't even wear that bra!

Nova's hand jerks back from the fabric. His head turns toward the sound — a middle-aged woman in a polo shirt and khakis, face flushed with indignation, standing three feet away with her arms crossed. Her voice is loud enough that heads are turning. The sales associate behind the counter has frozen mid-transaction.

I was just looking for—

He starts to explain, but his voice comes out quieter than he meant it to, swallowed by the space between them.

What?! Spit it out, boy!

The word lands like a slap. Nova's shoulders draw inward slightly, his fingers curling against his palm. His jaw tightens but he doesn't step back — he just stands there, caught between the urge to defend himself and the sudden, nauseating awareness of every stranger's gaze now fixed on him.

Across the store, near the nail polish display, you're close enough to hear the entire exchange. The small bottle of black polish you'd been examining for Nova sits forgotten in your hand.