Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMFBRXYM7AJSNSS9PQPB1Z

The Raven’s Nest smelled of aged whiskey and lemon oil, the kind of scent that clung to the walls like a second skin. Rory wiped her hands on her apron, the crescent scar on her left wrist catching the dim light as she reached for another glass. The bar was quiet tonight—just a handful of regulars nursing their drinks, the low hum of conversation barely rising above the jazz record spinning on the old turntable. She didn’t see him at first. It was the way the air shifted, the sudden stillness of the room, that made her look up. A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the green neon glow of the sign outside. His coat was damp from the London rain, his auburn hair streaked with more grey than she remembered. He leaned slightly on his left leg, the way he always had, but the years had carved deeper lines around his eyes. Silas. Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t seen him in—what? Five years? Six? Not since she’d left Cardiff in the dead of night, not since she’d stopped answering his calls. He spotted her immediately. His hazel eyes locked onto hers, sharp and knowing, the way they always had been. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Rory,” he said, his voice rougher than she remembered. She swallowed. “Silas.” The glass in her hand felt suddenly heavy. She set it down, her fingers trembling just slightly. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been standing on her parents’ doorstep, his signet ring glinting in the porch light as he tried to talk her out of leaving. *You don’t have to run,* he’d said. *Not from him. Not from this.* But she had run. And now here he was, filling the doorway of his own bar like a man who had never left it. Silas limped toward her, his cane tapping softly against the hardwood floor. The regulars at the bar barely glanced up—this was his place, after all, and they knew better than to stare. But Rory felt every step like a drumbeat, counting down the years between them. “You’re working here now?” he asked, nodding at her apron. She crossed her arms, as if that could shield her from the weight of his gaze. “Just part-time. Yu-Fei needed someone for deliveries, and Silas—” She stopped, realizing her mistake. “I mean, the pay’s decent.” A flicker of something passed over his face. Amusement? Pain? “You can say my name, Rory. I’m not a ghost.” She exhaled through her nose. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” “Where else would I be?” He leaned against the bar, close enough that she could smell the rain on his coat, the faint scent of sandalwood that always clung to him. “This place is mine. Or didn’t you know?” She had known. Of course she had. Eva had mentioned it in passing, years ago, when Rory was still too raw to ask for details. *Silas bought a bar in Soho. Can you believe it? The old spy, playing landlord.* But Rory had never looked it up. Never let herself wonder. Now, she took in the familiar details—the maps on the walls, the black-and-white photos of faces she didn’t recognize, the way the light from the neon sign outside painted everything in shades of green. This was his world. And she had walked into it without meaning to. “What are you drinking?” she asked, because it was easier than saying anything real. Silas studied her for a long moment, then slid onto a stool. “Whiskey. Neat.” She poured it without looking at him, her hands steady even as her pulse raced. The amber liquid caught the light as she pushed the glass toward him. He took it, his fingers brushing against hers. Just for a second. Just enough to make her remember the way he used to ruffle her hair when she was a kid, the way he’d called her *kiddo* like she was something precious. “You look different,” he said. She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. Well. Time does that.” “Not just time.” His gaze flicked to her wrist, to the scar she’d had since she was twelve. “You’re not the girl who used to climb trees in your parents’ backyard.” She flexed her fingers, as if she could hide the mark. “No. I’m not.” Silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying. The last time they’d spoken, she’d been crying in his car, her knuckles bruised from where Evan had grabbed her. *I can’t go back there,* she’d sobbed. *I won’t.* Silas had driven her to the train station without another word. He’d given her cash, a burner phone, the name of a friend in London. *Call me when you get there,* he’d said. *No matter what.* She hadn’t. Now, he swirled the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly. “I heard you dropped out of law school.” Her stomach twisted. “News travels.” “Your mother mentioned it. Last Christmas.” He took a sip, watching her over the rim of the glass. “She worries.” Rory’s jaw tightened. “She shouldn’t.” “She’s your mother. Of course she should.” “And what about you?” The words came out sharper than she intended. “Do you worry too, Silas?” He set the glass down. “Every damn day.” The air left her lungs. She hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected the raw honesty in his voice, the way his eyes darkened like storm clouds. “Then why didn’t you come find me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Silas was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the bar toward her. She didn’t want to touch it. Didn’t want to know what it was. But her fingers betrayed her, unfolding it with trembling hands. It was a train ticket. From Cardiff to London. Dated six years ago. “I came,” he said quietly. “The night you left. I was at the station when your train pulled in.” Rory’s vision blurred. She remembered that night—the way the platform had been slick with rain, the way she’d clutched her bag like it was the only thing keeping her from drowning. She’d looked for Eva in the crowd, but not for him. Never for him. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she whispered. Silas exhaled, long and slow. “Because you were running. And I knew if I stopped you, you’d never forgive me.” She closed her eyes. The weight of it pressed down on her—the years, the silence, the way they’d both chosen to let each other go. When she opened them again, Silas was watching her, his expression unreadable. “Do you regret it?” she asked. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the whiskey bottle and poured another finger into his glass. Then, slowly, he pushed it toward her. “Drink with me,” he said. “And I’ll tell you.”