Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPGEEBFYB33W609PERQC5M

The green neon sign buzzed softly above the entrance to The Raven’s Nest, casting a faint glow on the damp pavement. Rory pushed open the heavy wooden door, the familiar scent of whiskey and old wood enveloping her as she stepped inside. The bar was quiet for a Thursday evening, save for a few regulars hunched over their drinks and the low hum of a jazz track crackling through the speakers. She scanned the room, her bright blue eyes adjusting to the dim light, and spotted Silas behind the bar, polishing glasses with his usual precision. His silver signet ring caught the light as he worked, a faint clink echoing with each movement. She slid onto a stool at the bar, setting her delivery bag down beside her. “Evening, Si,” she said, her Cardiff accent softened by years in London but still detectable. Silas glanced up, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Rory. Back early tonight.” “Slow orders,” she replied, shrugging. “Thought I’d stop by before heading upstairs.” He nodded, setting a glass in front of her and reaching for a bottle of her usual bourbon. As he poured, the door creaked open again, and Rory heard footsteps approach the bar. She didn’t turn—until a voice she hadn’t heard in years froze her in place. “Silas. Good to see you.” Rory’s breath caught. She knew that voice, though it was deeper now, rougher around the edges. Slowly, she turned her head, and there he was—Evan. The years had carved new lines into his face, and his once-boyish features had hardened into something sharper, more defined. His hair was shorter, darker, and he wore a tailored suit that spoke of money and power. But his eyes—those piercing grey eyes—were the same. They flicked to her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. “Evan,” Silas said, his tone carefully neutral. He set a glass down in front of him, the amber liquid catching the light. “Long time.” “Too long,” Evan replied, though his gaze remained fixed on Rory. “Laila.” The name hit her like a punch to the chest. She hadn’t been called that in years—not since she’d left Cardiff, not since she’d left him. “It’s Rory now,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. “Rory,” he repeated, as if testing the name on his tongue. He slid onto the stool beside her, his movements deliberate. “You look different.” “So do you.” She took a sip of her bourbon, the warmth doing little to settle her nerves. “Ten years will do that.” Evan nodded, his fingers drumming lightly on the bar. “Ten years,” he echoed. “Funny how time slips away.” Silas moved down the bar, leaving them in a bubble of uneasy silence. Rory traced the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist absently, a nervous habit she hadn’t quite shaken. Evan noticed, his gaze lingering on the mark he knew so well. “Still got that,” he said, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. “Still got the knee?” she shot back, her tone sharper than she intended. He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “Touché.” They lapsed into silence again, the weight of years pressing down between them. Rory’s mind raced with memories—long nights spent laughing, whispered promises, and the bitter, broken end of it all. She wondered if he remembered it the same way, if the guilt still haunted him as it did her. “How’ve you been?” he asked finally, breaking the tension. “Fine,” she replied, her voice clipped. “Working. Living.” “Delivering takeaway?” She bristled at the edge of judgment in his tone. “Among other things.” Evan nodded, sipping his drink. “And your father? Still practicing law?” “Retired.” She didn’t offer more, and he didn’t press. The jazz track shifted to something slower, more melancholic, and Rory stared into her glass, willing herself to stay composed. She could feel him watching her, studying her, as if trying to piece together the person she’d become. “You’re different,” he said at last. She looked up, meeting his gaze. “People change.” “Not always for the better,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. Rory’s jaw tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Evan shrugged, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Just an observation.” “You don’t get to make observations,” she snapped, her cool demeanor cracking. “Not after what you did.” He flinched, the first genuine reaction she’d seen from him all night. “Rory—” “No,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “You don’t get to come back here and act like nothing happened. You don’t get to pretend you didn’t—” She stopped herself, taking a deep breath to steady her voice. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s in the past.” “Is it?” he asked quietly. She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Instead, she finished her drink in one long swallow and stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Goodbye, Evan.” He reached for her wrist, his touch sending a jolt through her. “Wait.” She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. “Let go of me.” He hesitated, then released her, his hand falling to his side. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “For everything.” Rory stared at him, the apology catching her off guard. She’d waited years to hear those words, but now that they were here, they felt hollow, meaningless. “It’s too late,” she said softly. Evan nodded, his face etched with regret. “I know.” She turned and walked away, the weight of his gaze following her until she reached the door. Outside, the cool night air washed over her, and she leaned against the brick wall, her chest heaving with the effort of holding herself together. Back inside, Silas watched Evan from the end of the bar, his expression unreadable. “That went well,” he remarked dryly. Evan pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Shut up, Silas.” The older man chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got a lot to make up for.” “Tell me something I don’t know,” Evan muttered, finishing his drink and gesturing for another. Silas obliged, pouring a fresh glass. “She’s not the same woman you knew.” “Neither am I,” Evan said quietly. Silas studied him, the weight of years and mistakes hanging heavy in the air. “Then maybe it’s time to start acting like it.” Evan didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the door Rory had walked through. For the first time in years, he felt the full weight of his choices—and the impossible task of trying to undo them. Meanwhile, Rory climbed the stairs to her flat, her mind racing with thoughts she’d long tried to bury. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, shutting it firmly behind her. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath. The past had a way of catching up with you, no matter how far you ran. And tonight, it had come knocking at her door—bringing with it ghosts she wasn’t sure she could face. But she would, she told herself, because she had no other choice. She just hoped she’d survive the encounter.