and it's hard to write about happiness

open starter!! (@coyotestarters) || location: the siren!!

the bar wasn’t open yet. not officially. but the keys had turned in the lock at the same stubborn angle, the neon flicker of the siren hadn’t quite come to life, and the floor still carried the faint scent of citrus cleaner and last night’s regret. iris stood behind the bar with her sleeves rolled to the elbows and her fingers wrapped around a chipped mug that had somehow outlived it's expiration date. it wasn’t for show. she hated wasting good coffee. the silence was the kind that filled a place just before the world filtered in — that thin, golden hour hush where you could almost pretend nothing was broken. that no one had cried in the hallway two nights ago. that no one had punched a mirror in the men’s room. that the bruises under her concealer were from something other than choices she made on autopilot. outside, the heat was starting to settle in thick. dust curling under car tires. cicadas humming like static. inside, she moved slow. controlled. she lined up shot glasses that would be empty by midnight, replaced a bulb behind the shelves, and picked dried petals from the vase someone had left on the counter. she paused, one hand braced on the bar, the other hovering near the record player tucked behind the sink. there was something ritualistic about it — putting on music before the first voice echoed through the door. like she needed the sound to protect her from herself. she chose a worn etta james record today. something bluesy. something sharp. the first note hit like a bruise and bled into the wood-paneled walls. iris leaned back, watching the sun slant through the warped windows, the air heavy with the weight of things unsaid. her voice, when it came, was low. tired. laced with that whiskey-laced warmth she never meant to show anyone. “you’re early.” she didn’t look right away — didn’t need to. you didn’t grow up in coyote valley without learning how to recognize footsteps, the way dust shifted in someone’s wake, or the sound of a breath taken just before words meant to hurt. “you want something?” she asked finally, gaze cutting sideways as she turned the volume down just enough to make room for the answer. “or you just here for the ghosts like the rest of us?”