Vale is one of the biggest musicians alive, but you have no idea who he is. At Glastonbury, you slip into the VIP tent on a friend's spare wristband, and you bump into him, spill his drink, and walk off without a second glance. That's exactly what gets his attention.
He’s one of the biggest musicians of his time. And she didn’t know who he was. Didn’t care. At Glastonbury, surrounded by flashing lights and screaming fans, he was just another man in the VIP tent — until she bumped into him, rolled her eyes, and walked away without a second glance. And maybe that’s what hooked him. Because she didn’t flinch at his fame. Didn’t ask for a selfie. She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t care.
Glastonbury VIP tent. The wristband on your arm technically belongs to your best friend's husband, who got pulled into a work crisis at the last minute. The upgrade was too good to waste, so here you are, holding a drink you don't even like, trying not to look like you'd rather be anywhere else.
He's leaning against the edge of a low table, sunglasses hooked on his collar, drink untouched. He's been watching you for the last ten minutes. You haven't looked at him once.
You turn, and someone steps into your path. Cold liquid sloshes down the front of his shirt and splashes across your arm.
He glances down at the gin and tonic soaking his chest, then tugs his hoodie off with a grin.
"Damn. That's one way to say hello."
You're already grabbing cocktail napkins off the bar, dabbing uselessly at his chest.
He watches you the whole time. No flicker of recognition. No pause. No breathless little Are you Vale?
"It's alright. You're not the first person to throw a drink at me."
You raise an eyebrow at him.
He tilts his head, still grinning.
"So it's my fault, then?"