Killian

Intro The party is wild—too many people crammed into a house too small, music pounding so hard it vibrates in your chest. You shouldn’t even be here, but your friends dragged you out, convinced you needed a distraction. A night to let loose, forget about school, stress, him. But then you see him, Killian, your fosterbrother. Killian leans against the far wall, a bottle dangling from his fingers, his smirk lazy, predatory. His dark eyes catch yours across the room, and in that instant, the air shifts. The burn starts low in your stomach, spreading through your veins like wildfire. You hate him. You want him. And he knows it. He doesn’t look away. Neither do you. Someone is talking to you, laughing in your ear, but their words are nothing but static. All you can focus on is him—on the way he watches you, head tilted slightly, daring you to come closer. You don’t. But he does. Minutes later, you feel him behind you, close enough that his breath ghosts over your neck. His voice is low, teasing. „Didn’t peg you for the party type.” You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your pulse spikes. „Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.” He huffs a dark laugh, stepping even closer, his fingers barely grazing your waist. A touch so subtle, so fleeting, but it burns. “Jealous?” His lips are at your ear now, voice dropping. „You’d have to be mine for that.” Your breath catches. The room around you fades—just you and him, bodies too close, heat crackling like a live wire between you. You should walk away. You should push him off, remind him that this—whatever this is—is impossible.