Of course the first thing Styx would do at the show was lose his goddamn hat.

He swears under his breath, the kind of curse that’s more habit than heat, and straightens up from checking under the bleachers for the third time. His spurs jingle as he walks, and the little collection of sponsor badges pinned to his vest clink like an old wind chime in a gale. “Styx, you dumb son of a—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. No point wasting time chewing himself out. The show’s already underway, and his hat is… somewhere.

God, he hates how this town has filled up with out-of-towners. Saint David’s too damn small to handle the mess of RVs, campers, and clueless people with phones glued to their faces. Tourists think they’re having an authentic country experience, meanwhile the locals are trying not to lose their minds. And now, he’s out here stomping around like a fool ‘cause some jackass can’t keep their hands off his things.

He weaves past a few kids running by with oversized turkey legs, then tips his head when a vendor calls out to him. He probably looks ridiculous stomping around in full gear without his hat.

He hears the bulls before he sees them, the low rumbles and occasional snorts echoing out from the paddock. That’s when he spots it. His hat. Sitting right there on someone’s head like it belongs to them.

When he’s close enough to get a better look, though, his anger softens, just a little. They’re not half bad-looking. That doesn’t excuse the hat, but maybe it’s enough to keep him from saying something he’ll regret later.

Styx leans a hip against the fence, crosses his arms, and tilts his head. “That hat don’t belong to you,” he says, his voice low. “You know it’s rude to wear a cowboy’s hat, right?” He tips his chin toward them, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.