Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPESM1P9YYV18YMFK761CJ

The Raven's Nest smelled of aged whiskey and polished wood. Rory pushed through the heavy oak door, the green neon glow from the sign outside casting an eerie halo around her black hair. She shook off the London drizzle, her bright blue eyes scanning the dim interior. The bar was quiet for a Thursday evening—just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, the clink of ice against glass punctuating the low murmur of conversation. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, running her thumb absently over the crescent scar on her left wrist. The bartender—a new guy, young and eager—nodded at her. "The usual?" Rory shook her head. "Not tonight. Whiskey. Neat." The bartender raised an eyebrow but said nothing, reaching for the bottle of single malt Silas kept behind the counter for special occasions. As he poured, the door opened again, letting in a gust of damp air. Rory didn't look up until she heard the voice. "Rory?" Her fingers froze around the glass. That voice—deep, familiar, rougher around the edges than she remembered. She turned slowly, her pulse thudding in her throat. Evan stood there, his dark coat dripping onto the floorboards. He was taller than she remembered, broader, his once-boyish features hardened by time. His hair was shorter, cropped close to his skull, and there was a scar cutting through his left eyebrow that hadn't been there before. "Evan," she said, her voice steady despite the way her stomach twisted. He exhaled, a slow, measured breath, as if he'd been holding it for years. "I thought it was you." Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. The bartender cleared his throat and discreetly moved down the counter. Evan stepped closer, hesitating before taking the stool beside her. "Can I—?" Rory pushed the whiskey toward him. He caught it before it slid off the edge, his fingers brushing hers. A spark of memory—his hands, gentle once, then not. She pulled back. "You look good," he said, his gaze flickering over her face. She snorted. "Liar." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Still blunt as ever." "Still trying to charm your way out of things?" He winced, but didn’t deny it. Instead, he lifted the glass and took a sip. The whiskey caught the low light, amber and sharp. "I didn't know you were in London." "I didn't exactly send out announcements." Evan set the glass down carefully. "Fair enough." The silence returned, heavier this time. Rory studied him—the way his shoulders hunched slightly, the tension in his jaw. He was different. Not just older, but quieter. The fire that had once burned in him, the one that had drawn her in and then burned her, was banked. "Why are you here, Evan?" He hesitated. "Work." "Work," she repeated flatly. "Yeah. Security consulting." She almost laughed. "You? Security?" His fingers tightened around the glass. "People change, Rory." "Do they?" He met her gaze then, and for the first time, she saw it—the weight in his eyes, the regret. "Yeah," he said softly. "They do." She looked away, suddenly unable to hold his stare. The bar felt too small, the air too thick. She wanted to leave, to walk out and never look back. But she didn’t. "You left," she said finally. Evan exhaled. "I know." "No note. No call. Just gone." "I was an idiot." "That's not an apology." He ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Rory. For all of it." She swallowed hard, the words lodging in her chest. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to hear them until they were out in the open, raw and unpolished. The door to the back room opened, and Silas emerged, his limp more pronounced in the damp weather. He paused when he saw them, his sharp eyes flicking between Rory and Evan. "Everything all right?" he asked, his voice low. Rory nodded. "Yeah. Just catching up." Silas studied Evan for a long moment before giving a curt nod. "Don’t stay up too late. You’ve got deliveries in the morning." Evan watched Silas retreat, his brow furrowed. "You work here?" "Part-time." He frowned. "I thought you were going to law school." She shrugged. "Plans change." Evan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked down at his hands, at the scars and calluses there. "I heard about your dad. I’m sorry." Rory stiffened. "Don’t." "I just—" "Don’t," she repeated, sharper this time. He fell silent. The weight of the years between them pressed down, suffocating. Rory pushed her stool back, the legs scraping against the floor. "I should go." Evan didn’t try to stop her. He just nodded, his expression unreadable. "Take care of yourself, Rory." She paused at the door, the neon light painting her in green. "You too, Evan." And then she stepped out into the rain, leaving the past behind her once more.