Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPGK78YSEZJD909ZVZW9NN

The Raven's Nest smelled of aged whiskey and polished wood. Aurora Carter pushed through the heavy oak door, letting the November chill slip in behind her before it was swallowed by the bar's warmth. She shook the rain from her black hair, the neon green sign outside casting an eerie glow across her sharp features. The place was half-empty—just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, their faces lit by the amber glow of table lamps. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, where the light didn’t quite reach. Silas was polishing a glass, his silver signet ring catching the light as he worked. He didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You're late," he said. "Traffic," Rory lied. She hadn’t been in traffic. She’d been standing outside for ten minutes, working up the nerve to come in. Silas set the glass down and finally met her eyes. His hazel gaze was as steady as ever, but there was something new there—something guarded. "You look like hell," he observed. "Thanks." She rubbed the small crescent scar on her wrist, an old nervous habit. "I’ll take a whiskey. Whatever’s cheap." He didn’t move. "Since when do you drink whiskey?" "Since now." She forced a smile, but it felt brittle. Silas exhaled through his nose but turned to pour her drink. The liquid was dark, almost black in the dim light. He slid it across to her, and she wrapped her fingers around the glass, letting the heat seep into her skin. She took a sip. It burned all the way down. Silas leaned against the back counter, arms crossed. "You going to tell me why you’re really here, Rory? Or are we just going to pretend this is a social call?" She opened her mouth, then closed it. The words stuck in her throat. Before she could answer, the door opened again. A gust of wind, a burst of laughter. Rory didn’t turn—she wasn’t interested in whoever had just walked in—but then she heard a voice that made her spine stiffen. "No fucking way." She knew that voice. Knew it like the back of her hand, like the sound of her own breath. Slowly, she turned. Evan stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his coat. He was taller than she remembered, broader. His hair was shorter, his jaw sharper. But his eyes—those were the same. Dark, intense, always searching. He grinned, and it was like looking at a ghost. "Rory Carter. I’ll be damned." Her fingers tightened around the glass. She could feel Silas watching her, could feel the weight of the years between them pressing down. "Evan," she said, and her voice didn’t shake. She was proud of that. He strode forward, shedding his coat like he owned the place. "What are the odds?" He clapped a hand on her shoulder, and she had to fight not to flinch. "How long has it been? Three years?" "Four," she corrected. "Four." He whistled, sliding onto the stool beside her. "Time flies, huh?" He glanced at Silas, then back at her. "You two know each other?" Silas’ expression was unreadable. "We’ve met." Evan laughed, loud enough that a few heads turned. "Small world." He flagged down Silas. "I’ll take whatever she’s having." Silas didn’t move. "ID." Evan blinked. "Seriously? You know how old I am." "Policy," Silas said flatly. Evan sighed but dug out his wallet. He slapped his ID on the counter, and Silas took his time examining it before pouring the drink. Evan snatched it up the second it was in front of him, taking a long swallow. "So," he said, turning back to Rory. "What have you been up to? Last I heard, you were in Cardiff." She took another sip of whiskey, buying time. "I moved. Obviously." "Obviously." He smirked. "Still running, then?" The glass nearly slipped from her fingers. She set it down carefully. "Not running. Living." "Right." He leaned in, close enough that she could smell the cologne he’d always worn—something woodsy, expensive. "You look good," he murmured. "Different, but good." She didn’t answer. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Evan sighed and sat back. "Come on, Rory. Don’t be like that. We’re old friends, aren’t we?" "Are we?" His smile faltered. "Ouch." He took another drink. "You always did hold a grudge." She stared at him, at the man he’d become. The confidence in his posture, the ease with which he took up space. He wasn’t the boy she’d known. But then again, she wasn’t the girl she’d been, either. "You changed your hair," she said finally. He ran a hand through it, self-conscious for the first time. "Yeah. Needed a change, you know?" She did know. Better than most. Silas cleared his throat. "You two want another round, or are we done here?" Evan grinned. "Definitely another round. We’ve got catching up to do." He nudged Rory’s arm. "Right?" She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the ghost of the boy she’d loved. The one who’d made her laugh, who’d held her when she cried. The one who’d left bruises on her wrists and called it love. She stood abruptly, tossing a few bills on the counter. "I should go." Evan’s smile vanished. "What? No, come on—" "Nice seeing you, Evan." She turned to Silas. "Thanks for the drink." Silas nodded, his gaze knowing. "Anytime, Rory." She didn’t look back as she walked out, the door swinging shut behind her. The rain had stopped, but the air was still thick with the promise of more. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold, clean scent of it. Four years. Four years, and he still thought he could walk back into her life like nothing had changed. She started down the street, her footsteps steady. This time, she wasn’t running. This time, she was choosing.