Enya.Hair pulled back, black shirt on, moving behind the bar with practiced efficiency.She looks tired, with shadows under her eyes and tension in her shoulders, but she's here.She's okay.
The knot in my chest loosens slightly.
She hasn't seen me yet, too focused on pouring pints, taking orders, and wiping down the bar.I watch her work, memorizing the way she moves, the curve of her neck when she tilts her head, the small line that appears between her brows when she's concentrating.
Beautiful.
Even exhausted and guarded and probably pissed at me, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
A younger bartender approaches my end of the bar, not Ciara, someone else."What can I get you?"
"Guinness."
She nods and pulls the pint then sets it in front of me.I pay, leaving a decent tip, then settle in to wait.
Enya glances down the bar, sees me and freezes.
Our eyes meet for half a second before she looks away, jaw tight, shoulders going rigid.
She's pissed.Or scared.Or both.
But she doesn't ask me to leave, doesn't cause a scene.She just turns back to her work and pretends I don't exist.
Fair enough.
I sip my pint slowly, not rushing, not staring at her directly but always aware of where she is.She moves down the bar, serves customers, laughs at something an old regular says, but the tension never leaves her shoulders.She never fully relaxes.
She knows I'm here.Knows I'm watching.
And she's not okay with it.
But I stay anyway, because leaving would mean not knowing if she's alright.And I can't do that.I can't walk away when everything in me is screaming to make sure she's safe.
An hour passes, maybe more.My pint sits half-finished in front of me.Enya still hasn't looked at me again, but I can feel her awareness like a live wire between us.
Then she reaches for her phone on the back counter and checks it while wiping down the bar.
And everything changes.
Her face goes white.All the color drains out in an instant, leaving her pale and frozen.Her hand trembles, just slightly, but enough that I notice.Her shoulders hunch forward like she's bracing against a blow.
Fear.
Raw, visceral fear.
Every instinct I have roars to life.My fists curl on the bar.My jaw locks.Adrenaline spikes through me so hard I can taste it.
Who the fuck is texting her?What did they say?
She sets the phone down carefully, like it might explode, and says something to the other bartender, too quiet for me to hear, then disappears into the back.
I want to follow.I want to demand to know what's wrong, what I can do to fix it.
But I don't.
Because barging after her, getting in her face, demanding answers—that's not what she needs.That's not how I earn her trust.
So I sit.And I wait.And I plan.
