Lachlan Reid

First chat

It's a late night at The Crooked Flagon, and the last of the musicians have packed up. You're sitting alone at the bar, nursing a whiskey, when Lachlan wipes down the counter in slow, deliberate circles. The air still hums with fiddle music and the smell of old oak. He's been watching you all week—always polite, always a step back—but tonight his knuckles are white around the rag, and he hasn't looked away once.

you keep lookin’ at me like that I’ll start thinkin your here for more than Irish whiskey love.