Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMNCG50JTE2HR3Y19D3TSKS

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses, the kind of noise that settled into the bones like a second heartbeat. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow through the rain-streaked windows, painting the patrons in shades of jade and shadow. Rory leaned against the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty gin and tonic, the ice long melted into something watery and weak. She hadn’t meant to stay this long. The delivery to Covent Garden had taken less time than expected, and the thought of going back to the flat—empty, echoing—had sent her here instead, to the one place in London that still felt like a kind of home. 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 slid down the glass, how it pooled in the grooves of her knuckles. Then the scent hit her—leather and bergamot, something familiar beneath the rain. Her stomach tightened. “Christ,” a voice said, low and rough with disuse. “Rory Carter. I’ll be damned.” She turned. Eva stood there, dripping onto the threshold, her dark curls plastered to her forehead. But it wasn’t the rain that made Rory’s breath catch. It was the way Eva held herself—shoulders squared, chin lifted, like she was bracing for a fight. The last time Rory had seen her, Eva had been all sharp edges and reckless laughter, the kind of girl who burned too bright and left scorch marks in her wake. Now, there was something hollowed out about her, like she’d been carved down to the bone. Her coat, once a vibrant red, was now a faded burgundy, the hem frayed. The silver hoops in her ears had tarnished. And her hands—Rory’s gaze snagged on them—were wrapped in bandages, the kind that spoke of stitches and antiseptic. Eva followed her stare and tucked her hands into her pockets. “Long time.” Rory swallowed. “Yeah. Long time.” The silence between them was a living thing, thick with all the things they weren’t saying. Eva had been the one to pull her out of Cardiff, to hand her the keys to the flat above this very bar and say, *You’ll be safe here.* And Rory had been safe, for a while. Until she wasn’t. Until she’d let herself get tangled up in something ugly, and Eva had disappeared without a word, leaving only a note on the kitchen counter: *Had to go. Don’t look for me.* Now here she was, standing in the doorway like a ghost. Silas appeared behind the bar, his hazel eyes sharp as he took in the scene. He didn’t say anything, just slid a glass of whiskey across the counter toward Eva. She caught it with her bandaged hand, her fingers trembling slightly. “Thanks, Si,” she said, voice rough. He nodded, his signet ring glinting in the dim light. “You look like hell.” Eva barked a laugh. “Feel like it too.” She downed the whiskey in one go, wincing as it burned its way down. Then she turned to Rory, her dark eyes searching. “You still living upstairs?” Rory nodded. “Yeah. Still delivering for Yu-Fei. Still… here.” Eva’s mouth twisted. “Still running, you mean.” The words hit like a slap. Rory set her glass down too hard, the gin sloshing over the rim. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “It means you’re still hiding.” Eva leaned forward, her voice dropping. “You think I don’t know what happened after I left? You think I didn’t hear about Evan?” Rory’s hands curled into fists. “You don’t know shit.” “I know he put you in the hospital.” Eva’s voice was quiet, deadly. “I know you had to change your name. I know you’ve been jumping at shadows ever since.” Rory wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell Eva she was wrong, that she wasn’t running, that she was fine. But the words stuck in her throat. Because Eva wasn’t wrong. Rory *had* been running. From Evan, from Cardiff, from the memory of the way his hands had felt around her wrists. From the way she’d let him convince her she was nothing without him. Eva must have seen the truth in her face because her expression softened, just a fraction. “I’m not judging you, Rory. Christ, I’m the last person who should be judging anyone.” She held up her bandaged hands. “Got myself into a bit of a mess. Had to disappear for a while.” “Doing what?” Eva hesitated. Then, quietly: “Things I’m not proud of.” Rory wanted to ask more, but the look on Eva’s face stopped her. There was a hardness there, a distance, like she’d built a wall between herself and the world. Rory recognized it because she’d done the same thing. Silas cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “You two want to take this somewhere else? You’re killing my vibe.” Eva smirked, some of the old fire flickering in her eyes. “Since when do you have a vibe, Si?” He grunted. “Since I opened this place. Now either order another drink or get out.” Eva slid her glass toward him. “Fill ‘er up.” Rory watched as Silas poured, the amber liquid catching the light. She should have felt something—relief, maybe, or anger. But all she felt was a dull, aching sadness. Because Eva was right. She *had* been running. And now, faced with the one person who knew her better than anyone, she didn’t know how to stop. Eva turned back to her, whiskey in hand. “So. You gonna invite me up, or what?” Rory hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded. The stairs to the flat above the bar creaked under their weight, the sound familiar, comforting. Rory fumbled with her keys, her hands unsteady. Eva stood close behind her, close enough that Rory could feel the heat of her, could smell the rain in her hair. “You’ve redecorated,” Eva said as they stepped inside. Rory glanced around. The flat was small, cluttered with books and half-finished cups of tea. A single lamp cast a warm glow over the worn sofa, the only real sign of life in the place. “Not really. Just… lived in.” Eva ran her fingers over the spines of the books on the shelf. “Still reading all the same crap, I see.” Rory managed a smile. “Some things don’t change.” Eva turned to face her, her expression unreadable. “No. But we do.” Rory’s chest tightened. “Eva—” “Don’t.” Eva held up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.” Rory swallowed the questions burning in her throat. Instead, she went to the kitchenette and put the kettle on. “Tea?” Eva nodded. “Yeah. Tea’s good.” They sat at the small table by the window, the steam from their mugs curling into the air between them. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, the neon glow of the Raven’s Nest sign reflecting off the wet pavement. Eva wrapped her bandaged hands around her mug. “I missed this place.” Rory studied her. “You could’ve come back anytime.” Eva’s laugh was bitter. “No. I couldn’t.” “Why not?” Eva didn’t answer. Instead, she reached across the table and brushed her fingers over the crescent-shaped scar on Rory’s wrist. “You kept it.” Rory pulled her hand away. “It’s not like I had a choice.” “No,” Eva said softly. “I guess you didn’t.” The kettle whistled, filling the silence. Rory got up to turn it off, her back to Eva. She could feel the weight of Eva’s gaze on her, heavy with things unsaid. When she turned back, Eva was watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “I’m sorry,” Eva said, her voice barely above a whisper. “For leaving. For not being there when you needed me.” Rory’s throat tightened. “You didn’t know.” “I should’ve.” Eva’s hands clenched around her mug. “I should’ve been there.” Rory wanted to tell her it was okay, that she understood. But it wasn’t okay. And she didn’t understand. Not really. Instead, she reached across the table and took Eva’s bandaged hand in hers. “You’re here now.” Eva’s fingers tightened around hers. “Yeah. I am.” Outside, the rain began to fall again, tapping against the window like a reminder. Some things couldn’t be undone. Some wounds didn’t heal. But for the first time in a long time, Rory didn’t feel so alone.