Gold hoops.
Glossy lips.
Texas confidence.
Every head turns.
Including mine.
She spots me and smiles like sheexpectedthat reaction.
“Hey, stranger.”
Her voice is warm, that soft Southern lilt wrapping around the words.
“Hey.”
I stand, pull out her chair.
She notices.
“Look at you,” she says, sliding into her seat. “Being all… gentlemanly.”
“I have layers.”
“Mmm,” she hums. “I’m starting to see that.”
The waiter comes.
We order.
She doesn’t even look at the menu long—like she’s used to places like this.
Used to this kind of life.
On paper?
She fits.
Perfectly.
Conversation is easy.
That’s the thing.
Effortless.
She tells me about Texas—debutante balls, big family holidays, Friday night lights that feel like religion.
I tell her about growing up bouncing between expectations.
We laugh.
We lean in.
At one point, her foot brushes mine under the table.
Doesn’t move away.
