#wldwst

helena didn’t often find herself in places like this—dimly lit, crowded bars that reeked of sweat, spilled beer, and old desperation. but tonight wasn’t about comfort. she was looking for someone. more accurately, she was HUNTING. her fingers curled around the faded busch light logo stamped on the side of the can. not her drink of choice, she was more of a red wine kind of woman, but what kind of pretentious fool orders a cabernet in a place like this? she was trying to blend in, not announce herself like a gunshot. she kept her posture loose, her gaze sweeping the room with casual disinterest. that’s when their eyes locked—just a flicker, a flash of recognition, and she’s mentally cursing herself. now wasn’t the time for reunions, or distractions for that matter. “clint.” she acknowledged him with a small smile, just enough to pass for polite. he was already moving toward her, the corners of his mouth tugged upward, that same old swagger in his stride. “it’s been a while since you showed up around these parts,” she said, lifting the can to her lips with a faint arch of her brow. “how’ve you been?” the beer was ice cold, sharp on her tongue, and terrible—but it gave her something to do with her hands. something to ground her before the conversation began.

the bar lorena worked at wasn’t your usual dive—none of that sticky-floor, spilt beer, rowdy nonsense. it had a warmth to it, a lived-in charm that made it feel more like a tucked-away parlor than a drinking hole. maybe that’s why paige slipped in there so easily, so often, like she belonged. because, in a way, she did.

there was a lounge area dressed in soft lamplight, and a modest dancehall in the back where country lovers came to two-step on the weekends. but on weekdays, it was quieter. PEACEFUL. and for paige, that made it the perfect kind of therapy.

lorena had that kind of presence—cool, unhurried, like the eye of a storm. it was something paige had gravitated toward from the start. maybe that’s why they’d grown so close, why she counted lorena among her best and dearest.

sliding onto one of the stools, paige batted her lashes with the practiced ease of someone who knew she could get away with it. “i don’t know what i’m feelin’ more today, lori—a strawberry marg or one of those fruity little drinks you always fix up so pretty. you know, with those black syrupped cherries i love.”

there was a glint in her eye, something conspiratorial. giddy. “what if i told ya i got a little crush on someone from town…” she added, her voice dipped in mischief, that playful expression all but dancing across her face.

she leaned forward on her elbows, spinning her empty ring around her finger out of habit, even though there was nothing there. “it’s not serious or anything,” she said with a half-smile, like she was trying to convince herself just as much. “but he’s got this way about him—quiet, steady. the kind that sneaks up on you. not the usual type i go for, but maybe that’s the point.”

a pause.

“it’s just nice, you know? to feel a little flustered again. like maybe i’ve still got that spark left in me somewhere.”

it was just like her little brother to find trouble like it was bred into his bones. the same way she’d once fought to hold their father above water after mama passed—nursing him through the bottle, cleaning up after the mess no one else could bear to see—she now fought just as hard to keep caleb from drowning in his own recklessness. drugs. the wrong crowd. that same ache all over again, just with a different name.

but when jeremiah called—his voice low and steady, the kind that said more than the words ever could—her heart lodged somewhere between her ribs and refused to settle. she’d barely thrown the truck into park before storming up to the ranch.

caleb sat hunched on the front steps, his shoulders curled inward like he might vanish into himself if he stayed still long enough. boot scraping at the dirt, head down—ashamed, but not enough.

her glare cut across the morning like a whip. “get in the truck. now.”

he didn’t speak. didn’t even look at her. just stood, jaw clenched and eyes fixed on the ground, and moved like a boy who knew better than to test the storm brewing in his sister’s voice.

her edges softened only when her eyes found jeremiah’s. a breath caught halfway between GUILT and gratitude. “i’m so sorry. are the cows alright?” she asked, voice lower now, gentler. paige was an animal lover to her core, always had been, and the thought of caleb and his idiot friends knocking livestock over for a drunken laugh just made the whole thing sit heavier in her gut. “if you’ve got your own punishment in mind for him, i’m not gonna stop ya,” she added, teeth pressing into her lower lip as she let out a weary sigh, one that had lived in her chest for years. “i’m all about teachin’ him lessons… even if they go in one ear and right out the damn other.”

her gaze drifted back to the truck where caleb waited, quiet and brooding behind the glass. lord, she was so tired of being the one who cleaned up after everybody else.

a loaded question. staring forward, amelie troy’s brown eyes locked in on a single light in the darkness. a recon mission dragging on through the night, the crisp air did just enough to keep the soldier alert. index finger loosened, forcing the trigger to click. “i don’t recall needing to be taken care of, price.”

fingers sunk into the dirt of the earth as she kneeled, looping the sniper around her body. “and isn’t that the downside of the job? the higher you get to the top, the less reinforcements you get?”

she didn’t want to admit it, but he’d been right–running themselves thin, days were starting to blur together, missions were more frequent. as rigid as her routine was, it still wasn’t enough to keep herself above water.

" it's ladies' night, right? " jessica pounds a shot back in a single, searing bolt & doesn't bother letting the liquor settle before snatching up the next glass between thumb & forefinger. it's not ladies night ; it's not even happy hour or the early bird special, but she doesn't give twenty flying fucks about what time of day it is. the second shot sears on the way down, a single, amber bullet designed to snuff out the long itch of days, nights, of too much bullshit so she can get some goddamn sleep.

lizzie's to do list

find a weekend to block out in tommy's daybook. it's a recurring to do, like a fissure she couldn't stop mindlessly prodding.

ring back the lawyer recommended to her. get a better understanding of legal exposure and custody regarding stepchildren. another, but much more recent, recurring to do.

find piano tutor for ruby.

find a piano tuner.