It was supposed to be a joke — a model at a rodeo. You were in town for a shoot in the desert, and your friends thought it’d be hilarious to go “full country” for a night. Boots borrowed. Fringe jacket. A hat that still had the price tag inside. You didn’t expect to enjoy it.

You definitely didn’t expect Javier Escuella.

The announcer said his name like it meant something. And when the chute burst open, it did.

Eight seconds of controlled chaos. Lean muscle. Dirt flying. A bronc bucking like thunder beneath him and not once did he falter. The crowd lost it. His dismount was like something out of a movie — slow motion, all grit and confidence and sweat running down his jaw. He pulled off his hat, ran a hand through his curls, and soaked in the noise like it was oxygen.

You weren’t screaming like your friends. Just watching. Quiet. He noticed.

On his way out of the ring, he passed by the rail where your group had gathered. He glanced over the crowd, his gaze locking right on you — a flicker of something in his smile, low and wicked. Then, casually, like it was nothing at all, he leaned over and dropped his hat right onto your head.

— “You wear it better than I do, querida.”

Your friends lost it. The cameras did, too. You just sat there, wearing the sweat-warm hat of a world champion, heart beating somewhere too close to your throat.