Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN1H6MA7E0QKDGYYHCDE7X

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses, the kind of sound that settled into the bones like a second heartbeat. The green neon sign outside bled through the rain-streaked windows, casting everything in an eerie, underwater glow. Rory leaned against the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of her gin and tonic, the ice long melted into something weak and watery. She hadn’t meant to stay this long. Just a quick drink after her shift at the Golden Empress, a moment to shake off the chill of the London evening before heading upstairs to her flat. But the Nest had a way of holding onto people, like a spider’s silk—soft, almost unnoticeable, until you tried to leave. The door swung open, letting in a gust of damp air and the distant wail of a siren. Rory didn’t look up. She was too busy watching the way the condensation on her glass caught the light, how it slid down in slow, uneven rivulets. Then the bar went quiet. Not all at once, but in patches, like a wave receding. Heads turned. A few murmurs, the kind that carried weight. Rory finally lifted her gaze. And there he was. Evan. Her breath hitched. It wasn’t possible. Not here. Not now. She hadn’t seen him in—what? Three years? Four? Time had a way of blurring at the edges when you tried not to think about it. He stood just inside the doorway, shaking the rain from his coat, his dark hair longer than she remembered, curling at the nape of his neck. He looked different. Thinner. The sharp angles of his face had softened, or maybe it was just the way the light hit him. His eyes, though—those hadn’t changed. Still that same unsettling green, like sea glass worn smooth by the tide. He hadn’t noticed her yet. He was too busy scanning the room, his gaze lingering on the old maps pinned to the walls, the framed photographs of men in trench coats and women in fedoras, their faces half-lost to shadow. Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. She should leave. Now. Before he saw her. Before this became something she couldn’t unravel. But she didn’t move. Evan’s eyes flicked toward the bar, and then—there it was. Recognition. A flicker of something like surprise, quickly smothered. He hesitated, just for a second, before crossing the room toward her. “Rory,” he said, and his voice was the same too. Low. Rough around the edges. The kind of voice that had once made her stomach flip, back when she still believed in the things he told her. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” She forced a smile, sharp as broken glass. “London’s a small city.” “Not that small.” He slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that she could smell the rain on his coat, the faintest hint of cologne—something woody, expensive. “You look good.” She wanted to laugh. She wanted to throw her drink in his face. Instead, she took a sip, letting the gin burn its way down her throat. “You too.” A lie. He didn’t look good. He looked like a man who had been hollowed out and put back together wrong. There were shadows under his eyes, deeper than the ones she remembered. And his hands—she couldn’t help but notice—were steady. Too steady. Like he’d learned to control every tremor, every tell. The bartender, a wiry man with a scar through his eyebrow, materialized in front of them. “What’ll it be?” “Whiskey,” Evan said. “Neat.” The bartender nodded and moved away. Evan turned back to Rory, his knee brushing against hers under the bar. She didn’t pull away. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to make a scene. “How’ve you been?” he asked. “Fine.” The word tasted like ash. “You?” “Good. Busy.” He paused, as if waiting for her to ask with what. When she didn’t, he added, “I’m in finance now. Private equity.” Of course he was. Evan had always been good with numbers, with systems, with things that could be controlled. It was the messier parts of life he’d never quite mastered. “Sounds lucrative.” “It is.” He studied her, his gaze lingering on the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist—the one he’d given her, though neither of them would ever say it out loud. “You still delivering for that Chinese place?” “Golden Empress. Yeah.” She swirled the dregs of her drink. “It pays the bills.” Evan’s whiskey arrived. He took a sip, his eyes never leaving hers. “You ever think about coming back to Cardiff?” “No.” “Your parents ask about you.” “They have my number.” He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so bitter. “You always were stubborn.” “And you always were a liar.” The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Evan’s jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he might walk away. But then he leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I’m not the same person I was, Rory.” “Aren’t you?” “No.” His fingers brushed against hers on the bar, just for a second. “I’ve changed.” She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But the past had teeth, and it didn’t let go easily. “People don’t change, Evan. They just get better at hiding.” He flinched, just barely. Then the door to the back room—the one behind the bookshelf, the one she wasn’t supposed to know about—creaked open, and Silas stepped out. His limp was more pronounced tonight, the way it always was when the weather turned. He paused when he saw them, his hazel eyes flicking between Rory and Evan like a man assessing a threat. “Everything alright out here?” Silas asked, his voice deceptively mild. Rory forced another smile. “Fine. Just catching up with an old friend.” Silas’ gaze lingered on Evan for a beat too long. Then he nodded, once, and moved behind the bar. “You need anything, Rory, you let me know.” The unspoken message was clear: *I’ve got your back.* Evan watched him go, his expression unreadable. “Who’s that?” “Silas. He owns the place.” “Seems protective.” “He’s a good friend.” Evan’s fingers tapped against his glass, a restless rhythm. “You’ve got a lot of those now, don’t you? Friends.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren’t saying. The things he’d done. The things she’d let him do. The way she’d run, in the end, because it was the only way to survive. Evan finished his whiskey in one swallow. “I should go.” Rory nodded. “Yeah. You should.” He stood, hesitating for just a second, as if he wanted to say something else. But in the end, he just turned and walked away, his coat billowing behind him like a shadow. The door swung shut, and the Nest exhaled, the hum of conversation rising again like a tide. Rory stared at her empty glass. The ice had melted completely now, leaving nothing but water and the faintest hint of juniper. Silas slid a fresh gin and tonic in front of her. “You alright?” She wrapped her fingers around the glass, letting the cold seep into her skin. “I don’t know.” He didn’t press. He never did. That was the thing about Silas—he knew when to talk and when to listen. When to step in and when to let her fight her own battles. Outside, the rain had picked up, drumming against the windows in a steady rhythm. Rory took a sip of her drink, the gin sharp and clean on her tongue. She wasn’t the same person she’d been when she left Cardiff. She knew that. But standing there, with the ghost of Evan’s touch still lingering on her skin, she wondered if she’d ever really escaped him at all. Or if some part of her would always be looking over her shoulder, waiting for him to come back.