Easy to miss.
I don’t miss much.
Vale says something to one of the guys beside him, hands off the bottle to somebody else, and starts walking our way.
And because I am apparently cursed with instincts and observation instead of peace, I clock the whole thing at once:
the way Texas subtly squares her shoulders,
the way she doesn’t look away,
the way Vale’s face changes when he gets close enough to really see her,
and the way whatever fun little moment she and I were building immediately gets replaced by something quieter and more dangerous.
Vale reaches us and glances at me first.
Not territorial.
Not warm either.
Just registering.
Then his attention goes to her.
And there it is.
That tiny, private shift in his expression.
That’s the kind of thing women fall in love with and men like me learn to distrust.
“Hey,” he says.
Texas says, “Hey,” back like she didn’t just spend the last ten minutes treating me like a gnat and the idea of him like a destination.
Interesting.
I let the silence breathe just long enough to be annoying.
Then I clap Vale once on the shoulder and say, “You stealing my conversation, prince?”
His eyes flick back to me.
“If it was yours, doesn’t look like you were doing much with it.”
Texas snorts.
I point at her.
“See? Hostile audience.”
Vale’s mouth moves at one corner.
Not a smile.
Almost worse.
Because it means he’s not trying.
