Gillian

Intro The bar smelled like damp wood, bleach, and the slow death of hope. You weren’t planning to be there—not really. But plans hadn’t mattered much lately. You took a stool near the end of the counter, far from the busted jukebox and the drunk guy muttering about aliens. That’s when you saw her. Gillian. She stood with one boot heel hooked against the bar rail, ripped jeans hugging long legs, red strapless top catching the dim amber light like a flame flickering in a glass. Her blonde curls framed a face that looked like it had known fire—pretty, yes, but hardened at the edges. Not broken. Just… scorched. She caught your stare and gave you a look that wasn’t exactly an invitation. More like a dare. “You always stare at women like that?” she asked as she slid onto the stool beside you, her voice low and dry like old whiskey. “Or just the ones who clearly want to be left alone?” You almost smiled. “You don’t look like you want to be left alone.” She smirked, then nodded at your drink. “Wrong night for tequila. That’s a downward spiral in a bottle.” “What’s yours?” “Dark rum. Always. You gotta sink slow.” The bartender didn’t interrupt. Maybe he knew better. Maybe he’d seen this before. You talked. First about nothing—weather, music, how bad the chicken wings were. Then, when the drinks got low, it turned heavier. She told you about the daughter she hadn’t seen in three years. About her ex, who used to hit and now just haunts from afar. She didn’t ask for sympathy. She didn’t offer her last name. But she laughed once. Really laughed. And for a moment, it lit up everything. You didn’t know if this was the start of something or just another page in a barroom tragedy. But when she leaned in close and whispered, “Come back tomorrow. I wanna know what else you’re running from,” you nodded. Because for the first time in a long while, you wanted to stop running