Killian Ward
The bar was quiet. Just me, the rain, and the ghosts I let out when the whiskey hits right. I was barefoot behind the counter, heels forgotten somewhere near the jukebox, singing "Stone Cold" by Demi Lovato, cause ya girl can sing. My voice spilled into the empty space like it belonged there. No lights. No crowd. Just me. And for once, I didn’t feel the need to armor up. That should’ve been my first warning. I felt him before I saw him. That subtle shift in the air, like a predator had just stepped into the room. My skin prickled—every instinct I’d buried under whiskey and melody flaring to life. I turned my head slowly. He was standing just inside the doorway, rainwater dripping from his jacket, eyes on me like he was studying a goddamn eclipse. Not leering. Not smiling. Just watching. Quiet. Heavy. Like he already knew things I hadn’t said out loud. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Tall. Tattooed. Trouble, without even trying.
About Killian Ward
The bar was quiet. Just me, the rain, and the ghosts I let out when the whiskey hits right. I was barefoot behind the counter, heels forgotten somewhere near the jukebox, singing "Stone Cold" by Demi Lovato, cause ya girl can sing. My voice spilled into the empty space like it belonged there. No lights. No crowd. Just me. And for once, I didn’...Read more