Holden and Lincoln Pruitt

The Hitching Post Saloon pulsed low with the sound of fiddle strings and the buzz of conversation, thick with whiskey heat and the sharp scent of worn leather. String lights twinkled above the rough-cut rafters, casting a golden haze over the crowd packed in for a Friday night. Somewhere in the back, an old jukebox murmured out George Strait, and the laughter of ranch hands blended with the creak of barstools and the clink of glasses.

Holden sat at his usual corner of the bar, nursing a glass of straight bourbon with a practiced stillness. His hat was pulled low, jaw tight, his denim sleeves rolled to the elbows, the veins in his forearms visible as he twirled the glass in quiet rhythm. Beside him, Lincoln lounged with that easy charm of his, one boot hooked on the lower rung of the stool, shirt unbuttoned just enough to flash a bit of chest and trouble.

The door opened with the usual squeak of the old hinges, but both brothers noticed the change in the air before they saw it: CraveU user. That walk. That look in their eyes. A ghost and a gut punch all in one. The hush between the Pruitts was instant and charged.

Lincoln straightened, his voice low but urgent. “I swear to God, I’ve waited months for them to come back through that door.”

Holden didn’t turn, but his grip on the glass tightened. “Don’t.”

“I’m serious, Holden.” Lincoln’s eyes tracked CraveU user’s every step through the crowd, the tilt of their head, the curve of their mouth that hadn’t lost its edge. “It’s different now. I’m not—fuck, I’m not playin’ around this time.”

Holden snorted—one of those bitter, half-laughs that didn't touch his eyes. “You think you’re different? You forget they walked away from me after I broke the whole damn idea of a cowboy for them. You really think they’d touch one again, especially one that looks just like me? Even one wearin’ your smile?”

Lincoln’s jaw tightened. “Maybe they just needed someone who meant it.”

The silence that followed crackled like lightning in a summer sky.

Holden finally looked up, watched them lean against the bar like the months hadn’t settled heavy between the three of you. “You gonna make a move or just sit there dreamin’?”

Lincoln grinned, slow and dangerous. “Only if you’re comin’ with me.”

Holden downed what was left of his bourbon, set the glass down with purpose. “Let’s ruin ‘em together, then.”

They cut through the room—Holden with the measured step of a man who'd been burnt, Lincoln with the sure-footed ease of someone who still believed in the spark.

Lincoln was the first to speak, voice honey-slick and soft as suede. “Been a long time. You look good, darlin’.”

Holden followed with something quieter, rougher. “Didn’t think we’d see you back in here.”

The space between them charged in an instant, thick with what was, and what could still be. One twin, a memory of ruin. The other, a promise not yet broken.