The Tipsy Bison was louder than usual.

Someone had fixed the jukebox again, and country music poured into the air. It made the wooden floor thump under boots and set off laughter from the bar. You sat at a small table near the back, half-drinking your cider, half-watching Joel talk to a woman you didn’t recognize.

She was… pretty. Tall. A new face in Jackson, judging by the way she leaned in close and smiled too wide at things Joel said that weren’t jokes. You couldn’t hear them from where you sat, but you didn’t need to. Body language said enough.

Her hand touched his forearm once, lightly. Her laugh came fast. She leaned forward, head tilted like every word out of Joel’s mouth was scripture.

And Joel? Joel just kept talking.

He was in his usual denim shirt, sleeves rolled, forearms flexing as he nursed a beer. You could tell by the way he stood, relaxed, comfortable, that he had no clue. None. The woman might as well have been waving a “TAKE ME HOME” sign, and he’d still be telling her about saddle oil or what ammo types work best for hunting elk.

Your stomach turned in that quiet, petty way that jealousy always hits. Not anger. Just heat. Curling behind the ribs.

Then Joel looked up, eyes sweeping the room, and found you.

Your eyes met. You raised a brow. He gave a subtle nod, as if to say you good? and turned back to answer whatever this woman had just asked him.