Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMRHRPESDAQ7MXRY69ZS3J

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly against the London rain, its glow bleeding into the pavement like an old wound. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and pipe tobacco, the hum of hushed conversations and the occasional clink of glasses. Aurora Carter—Rory, to her closest friends—leaned against the bar, nursing a glass of something amber and bitter, her fingers tracing the condensation on the rim. She hadn’t meant to come here. Not tonight. But the delivery for Golden Empress had run late, and the flat above Silas’ bar had felt too empty, too quiet, like a room waiting for a ghost she’d never invited in. Then the door chimed, and the weight of the world shifted. A man stepped inside, his presence cutting through the dimness like a blade. Tall, broad-shouldered, his auburn hair now streaked with silver, his beard neatly trimmed—he moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime carrying secrets. The limp was subtle, barely noticeable, but Aurora saw it. She’d always seen it. Silas Blackwood. She hadn’t expected to see him again. Not like this. Not after all these years. Her pulse stuttered. She turned away, pretending to study the label on her drink, but her reflection in the mirror behind the bar caught her—eyes wide, breath shallow. *What the hell are you doing here?* she thought, though she already knew the answer. Because some wounds never closed, and some people never left you. Silas didn’t look at her at first. He moved to the end of the bar, where an empty stool waited, and ordered a whiskey neat. The bartender, a young man with a bored expression, slid it toward him without a word. Silas took a sip, then set the glass down with deliberate care. “You look like hell,” he said. Aurora exhaled sharply through her nose. “And you look like you’ve been buried alive and dug up by a very polite archaeologist.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Flattery won’t get you out of this.” She finally turned, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I didn’t know you still owned this place.” “Neither did I, until I walked in the door.” His voice was rougher than she remembered, deeper, like he’d spent years scraping the edges off himself. “Thought I’d come for a drink. Didn’t expect to find you here.” Aurora swallowed. “I didn’t expect to find *you* anywhere.” A beat of silence. The kind that could shatter glass. Silas studied her—the way her black hair fell straight to her shoulders, the faint scar on her wrist, the way her fingers clenched around her glass. “You’ve been working for Cheung, haven’t you?” “Yu-Fei Cheung.” She raised an eyebrow. “You remember her.” “Of course I remember her.” His voice was dry. “She’s the reason I’m still breathing, after all.” Aurora’s breath hitched. She knew the story—how Silas had pulled Yu-Fei out of a fire in Hong Kong, how she’d repaid him by saving his life in return. But she hadn’t known he still carried that around like a brand. “You look like you’ve been doing okay.” “Doing.” He took another sip. “Not living.” The words hung between them, heavy as a dropped anchor. Aurora’s throat tightened. She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t known what to say when she’d left London, when she’d run from the past like it was on fire. She hadn’t known what to say when she’d buried herself in deliveries and late nights, when she’d let herself believe she could outrun the things that had shaped her. Silas must have seen the conflict in her face. He set his glass down harder than necessary. “You always were a terrible liar, Rory.” The nickname slipped out before she could stop it. A name she hadn’t let herself use in years. The way he said it—like it was a promise, like he’d always known her better than she knew herself—made her chest ache. She opened her mouth, then closed it. What was there to say? *I’m sorry?* *I didn’t mean to disappear?* *I didn’t know how to stay?* The words felt like stones, too heavy to throw. Silas sighed, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “I should’ve called you.” Aurora’s breath caught. “You should’ve.” “You left without a word.” “I left because you *left* without a word.” Her voice was sharp, but she didn’t care. “You just… stopped answering my letters. Stopped coming around. Like I meant nothing.” Silas flinched. “That wasn’t—” “Wasn’t what?” she snapped. “Not your fault? Not your responsibility? Because I remember how it was, Silas. I remember the way you used to look at me like I was something precious. Like I mattered. And then you just… didn’t.” His jaw tightened. “I was in the middle of a goddamn war, Rory. MI6 pulled me out of a fucking ambush in Prague. I came back with a knee that would never be the same, and a fucking headache that never went away. I didn’t know how to—” “How to *what*?” she interrupted, her voice breaking. “How to be the person I needed you to be? How to be the friend I needed you to be? Because I *tried*, Silas. I *tried* to be the person you needed me to be. But you didn’t even *try*.” Silas stared at her, his hazel eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. “You think I didn’t try?” Aurora’s hands trembled. She set her glass down too hard, the liquid sloshing over the rim. “I don’t know what I think anymore.” Silas exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I was an idiot. I was a fucking idiot, and I lost you.” Aurora’s breath hitched. “You didn’t lose me.” “No?” His voice was rough. “Then where the hell are you?” She looked away, her throat burning. “I’m here.” “No, you’re not.” He reached out, his fingers brushing hers where they rested on the bar. “You’re in Cardiff, pretending you don’t miss the city. You’re in London, working for Cheung like it’s some kind of penance. You’re in a flat above a bar you’ll never step foot in again because you’re too afraid to look me in the eye.” Aurora’s vision blurred. She hadn’t realized she was crying until the tears spilled over her cheeks. Silas’s voice softened. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.” “Bullshit.” His voice was low, urgent. “I did. I fucked up, and I lost you. And I don’t know how to get you back.” Aurora looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in years. The lines on his face were deeper now, his body carried the weight of years of carrying things that weren’t his to bear. But his eyes… his eyes were still the same. Still the eyes that had made her feel like she was the only person in the room. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that none of this—none of the time, none of the distance, none of the pain—had changed what they were to each other. But she didn’t know how to say it. Not yet. Silas must have seen the conflict in her face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather wallet. He flipped it open, revealing a photograph inside—a faded black-and-white image of two people standing on a rooftop in Prague, the city sprawled out behind them. One of them was Silas. The other was a younger Aurora, her black hair wild, her smile bright, her arm slung around his. She didn’t recognize the place, but she recognized the look on her face. The look of someone who believed in the world, who believed in *him*. Silas slid the wallet across the bar toward her. “I kept it. I didn’t mean to lose you, Rory. But I did. And I’ve spent every damn day since wondering if I could’ve done things differently.” Aurora’s fingers trembled as she reached for the wallet. She traced the edge of the photograph, her thumb brushing over the faded image of her younger self. “I thought you’d forgotten me.” “Never.” His voice was a whisper. “Never.” The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything unsaid. Aurora closed her eyes, letting the weight of it all settle over her—the years, the pain, the love, the regret. She looked at him again. “What now?” Silas exhaled, his breath shaky. “I don’t know. But I think… I think we start by not running anymore.” Aurora’s heart pounded. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that none of this—none of the time, none of the distance, none of the pain—had changed what they were to each other. She wanted to believe. She reached out, her fingers brushing his. “What if we can’t?” Silas’s grip tightened around hers. “Then we’ll figure it out together.” Aurora swallowed hard, her throat burning. She looked at him—really looked at him—and for the first time in years, she saw the man she’d loved, the man she’d missed, the man she’d never truly stopped missing. She took a deep breath. “Okay.” Silas’s smile was slow, tentative, like he was afraid she might disappear again. “Okay.” The weight between them lifted, just a little. Enough to breathe. Enough to hope. Aurora turned her glass in her hands, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the bar. She looked at Silas, then back at the photograph in her palm. She didn’t know what came next. But for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she had to figure it out alone.