Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6P8ZTV0B52ZZKXFCY16

The green neon over The Raven’s Nest buzzed against the rain like a tired insect. Rory had learned to love that sound at odd hours, the soft whine and the wet shush of London sliding past on the pavement. It settled her, like a metronome under the jumble of clatter from the bar—glasses stacked and restacked, the faint radio murmur from the kitchen, Silas’s slow tread behind her somewhere, the scrape of his bad leg skimming wood. She’d just finished a delivery run for Madame Yu-Fei down in Soho proper and stepped into the Nest to shake the rain off her jacket before taking the stairs to her flat. The bar was half-full: a trio of after-theatre types bent around their laughs, a lone woman with a paperback and a whiskey, a pair of men in suits arguing, softly, about rates and football. The walls were all maps and photographs—Antarctica ice-sheets across from a map of Old London in copper and sepia; black-and-white boys on motorbikes with half-closed eyes in the sunlight; an Alps peak sharp as a blade. It smelled of lemon oil and old smoke. Silas stood where he often did in the slant of light behind the counter, a large hand polished to a permanent ease around the stem of a drying glass. The silver signet ring on his right hand flashed when he turned his wrist. He flicked a glance at her when she came in and then at the rain behind her, reading the wet shoulders, the quickness of her breath. He didn’t say anything. He never rushed the first words out of anyone, not even her. The limp barely showed when he pivoted to stow the glass, but she caught the hitch, the tiny pause, remembered to translate it into patience. She slid into her usual stool at the edge of the bar, blindly rubbing the crescent scar at her wrist, the little pale comma left over from a childhood fall off a garden wall. Silas set a chipped mug of ginger tea in front of her without asking. Steam rose. She cupped the heat and closed her eyes for a second. The door opened. Cold air swept in, tinged with street and rain and some sharper tang, like expensive cologne that had weathered the day. Instinct made her glance without turning her head. She saw a suit first—navy wool, rain-dark on the shoulders, precise lines even after weather. Pale face with a mouth set to neutral, as if he was in a courtroom and someone had looked to him to remain composed. He stamped his feet lightly, glanced at the neon with a faint, automatic smile, and then spent a long beat looking around the room as if counting exits. He’d done that at twenty as well, though he never would have known to name it. Tomos Llewellyn, with a law textbook under one arm and his notes under the other, used to come into the student union and stand there, a little apart, scanning, cautious. He’d grow a beard with patchy sincerity and then shave it off in a panic before exams; he’d play at swagger and then turn up with a brow furrowed, worrying at Latin phrases over chips. He’d had too-long hair then, looked boyish even when he was angry. His laugh had been ridiculous and free. Now his hair was cut close to his skull, shining a little with rain. He’d shed the beard entirely and with it something else. His body held a new sort of quiet. It looked like it had been practiced into him. She blinked. The tea steamed under her chin. She felt the edges of herself shift, make room for an old shape; then she clipped it smooth and took a sip. “Evening,” Silas said, low, as the man took a step toward the bar. His voice had the kind of gravel that made you feel seen and not studied. “What can I get you?” “Water,” the man said. The vowels lilted over into Wales and back, gentler now, smudged by time in London but still there. “With ice and a slice of lemon, please.” That was new. He moved into a pool of light. Rory let herself look properly this time and felt the breath go odd in her chest, a small stutter. Tomos Llewellyn, of all the bars on all the wet streets of London. He saw her as he accepted the glass, turned to take in the place—a lingering look at a black-and-white shot of Prague bridges in winter on the wall opposite—and then his gaze skated over her as if she were any other patron. Stopped. Came back. Everything in his face shifted, the neutrality cracking at the edges. Surprise opened like a yawn he suppressed. “Aurora?” he asked, and then, because his mouth already knew the old shape of things, “Rory.” Her name was a clothesline from another yard. She put her mug down and felt the ceramic kiss the polished wood. “Tom.” “Bloody hell,” he said softly. The laugh that found its way out was smaller than she remembered but honest. He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and stood there for a heartbeat not moving closer, because he’d learned things about space, apparently. “You live in London now. I heard—Eva said—then I didn’t—ah, sorry.” He pulled in a breath. “May I?” He was asking to sit. She nodded at the stool beside her and watched him cross the space. The bar seemed to tilt, all those maps tugging their old latitudes into line. Silas’s hand, with its glinting ring, ghosted along the counter as he slid a second coaster in front of Tom. He made a slight, reading noise and moved down the length of the bar to give them the kind of privacy that is merely a gentleman’s distance and a practised blindness. He did it without fanfare. He knew what he knew and what to pretend not to know. Rory could feel him there, though, a steadying presence the way a wall steadies a room. Tom sat, the wool of his suit whispering. He set his left palm flat on the counter and tapped it once with two fingers, not quite a tic. No ring. He’d got broader across the shoulders, she thought, but not in a gym-show way. He had lines now in his forehead and a pale scar along his chin like a thought he’d been keeping under his skin. “I didn’t know you—” he began, and then he looked around again with a different sort of attention, catching the maps and the older crowd, catching on to Silas the way a dog will notice someone whose coat has seen weather. “This is you, then?” “No,” Rory said. “I just rent the air above it.” She couldn’t help the curl of a smile. “Hi, Tomos.” He wrinkled his nose and she saw the boy he’d been for a second. “Don’t. Tom is fine. I haven’t been Tomos since my mother last scolded me in front of the entire—” He stopped and breathed again. “I can’t—It’s been—how long?” “Long enough that you’re ordering water,” she said, tilting the glass lightly with her fingers. The lemon slice made a bright coin in the ice. “Ah.” He looked down at it as if he’d forgotten. He lifted it and then, almost shy, raised it in a half-toast before sipping. “Two years. I’m boring now.” He set the glass on the coaster with care. “I’m also alive, which I’ve been told is the more useful of the two.” “That tracks,” she said. The years unfolded themselves in her periphery like paper boats, setting off one after the other into the dark water of what-ifs. She’d known him at nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. Law lectures and library dust; all-nighters annotated with cheap coffee and terrible pop songs. A flat with three roommates and a radiator that clanked like a ghost in winter. Tom falling asleep on her floor with Blackstone’s Commentaries as a pillow while she built arguments in her head like scaffolds. “Do you still—” he started. “No,” she said. She wasn’t sure what he was going to ask—study law, belt Matthew’s cases in the shower, plan for something that would never have her—but she knew the shape of the question. “Delivery girl these days.” She tapped the heel of her hand against the counter. “Golden Empress. Best dumplings within a mile, if you ignore Madam Yu-Fei trying to convince you that the chilli oil is holy writ.” He huffed. “I’m supposed to be at a conference that has four different panels on the regulation of something I cannot pretend to care about. I stepped out for air. I saw the neon...” He gestured, the lemon sliding in the glass. “Workers of the night and tired men, I can spot from a mile.” “So still a lawyer, then,” she said. He looked the part. The suit. The clipped hair. The carefulness. He shook his head. “Sort of. Police. Detective Constable. Fraud, mostly. Paperwork in suits.” He made it sound like an apology. She let that settle. It both fit and didn’t. Tom had been the most decent person she’d known in those years, earnest without the cloying, clever without cruelty. He’d hated bullies on principle, and any time she’d teased him for it, he’d blush and argue ethics like a prizefighter. The weight of that made something ache under her ribs. “So you’re the lawman now,” she said lightly. “Don’t,” he said, mouth quirking. “My father still finds ways to be disappointed from three towns away when someone calls me that.” He blew out a breath and dragged the coaster a millimetre. “Rory—God, I didn’t know if I’d see you again. I wanted to. I wanted to for a while.” He cleared his throat. “Eva said you went to London, then it went quiet. I didn’t—look, I’m not here to pry. I just—” He put his palm up, graceless. “It’s good to see you.” There it was, in the air. Good to see you. As if they hadn’t both been different animals once. As if she hadn’t shattered and put herself back together with different glue. “Good to see you too,” she said, and meant it the way you mean you’re glad some part of the past didn’t vanish entirely. She took another sip of ginger tea. The sugar made her want to tell him everything and nothing at once. His gaze dropped to her hands. The scar on her wrist was pale under the bar light. He noticed. Tom had always been the sort to notice. His eyes left it a beat too long and then politely pretended not to have seen it. He tried again. “Do you ever—” He gave a small, helpless laugh. “God, we used to argue for sport. Remember? That moot on freedom of expression and you took the side you hated just to make me suffer.” “You were suffering because you refused to concede anything to hypotheticals,” she said. She couldn’t stop the smile this time. “I’d forgotten how red your ears got when you got going.” “Rude,” he said, with quiet warmth. “D’you know, I sometimes still think about your closing statement? The one about law as a language we agree to believe? I wanted to steal that and make it my own. It made me so angry.” He shook his head. “You always—” He let the sentence trail and sipped water instead. There were edges to that, places the blade could catch. Rory stared past him for a moment at a photo of a couple in black coats laughing by the Thames, heads tipped in. A swallow of ginger caught at the back of her throat. She had been so many versions of herself in such a small slice of time. Pre-law student, clever girl, girlfriend of a charming boy whose name she still felt skitter through her chest like a trapped bird. Laila for a time, to strangers, because a new name meant a door she could close and lock behind her. Girl with a bag slung over her shoulder, running to a night bus. Hawk-eyed woman above a bar, counting cash at two in the morning, listening to stories she would never tell. Tom’s voice gentled. “I should have asked you then. Are you all right?” He meant back then. In the ghost-light of flats and library stacks. After lectures when she’d vanished into a crowd to avoid the boy with the easy grin. After the time she’d turned up with a sweater in July. He meant now, too, in the softened way he held the words. Rory looked down at the rim of her tea. Her reflection swam in the murk like a coin at a fountain. She felt Silas somewhere behind her move, the faintest crease of leather under his shoe. A signal without content, a steadying. She knew she didn’t owe anyone a story. She also knew silence can be a cruelty when offered as absolution someone else never gets. “I am,” she said. That was true in its way. “I wasn’t,” she added, because that was also true. “And then I was, by degrees. That’s the boring bit, really.” “It isn’t,” Tom said, quick and fierce, then reined it in with a small smile. “But I take your point.” He looked at her and then away, past her shoulder, at nothing. The neon shivered on his cheek. He breathed like he had words he’d rehearsed long enough to startle him by not appearing. He set his hand flat on the bar again. When he spoke, it was softer. “I am sorry, you know. For not—this is useless now, I know that. But I knew something wasn’t right. I knew he—” He stopped, the name a ghost they both recognized. “I should have said something. Or done something. More than—what did I do? I made jokes. I pretended everything was fine because you did. I wasn’t brave enough to—” “You were twenty-one,” she said. “You made me tea and you came to the library with me at three in the morning so I didn’t have to be alone, and you gave me a place to sit where nothing was expected of me.” Her voice didn’t wobble. She surprised herself. “You were kind to me. That counts.” He let his head drop for a second like his spine had to reorder itself. When he looked up, his eyes were glassy and then not, because he was good at not being the man who cried at bars. “I wanted to be your friend,” he said. “Properly. Not just the boy who fancied being your friend.” She sucked in a breath that caught and broke on a laugh. “Tom.” “I’m only saying.” He spread his hands. “We were children playing at being brave adults. And then everything turned real and I—” He swallowed. The lemon slice bumped the ice again, absurdly bright. “I have thought about you every time I’ve had to tell someone they could come with me, or that they could say no, or that they could leave. I’ve thought: say it plainly, for Christ’s sake. Put the word safe before the verb.” She had not expected him to say that. Something in her chest unwound like a cord cut. “I’m glad you became the boring kind of alive,” she said. “The world needs your kind of boring.” He frowned like he couldn’t tell if she was teasing. Then his face opened, and the laugh came out—the same ridiculous sound, only softer around the edges. He set his glass down. “Do you remember the pier?” he asked. “In winter,” she said. “We stole your flatmate’s blanket and some biscuits and pretended to revise by lamplight. You lectured me on torts while I counted every person who walked past and invented their secrets.” “And you told me the law was just applied storytelling.” He breathed through a smile that wasn’t all joy. “You were always going to write your way out of something, I think.” She lifted a shoulder. “I delivered myself instead.” Silas drifted by to refill her hot water without interrupting, his signet ring making a quick circle of light against the glass of the kettle as he poured. He met Rory’s eyes just once, a little nod, the sort you give a person mid-bridge, and moved on. Tom watched him with an odd respect, like he recognized in him a road not taken or a story with a locked drawer. “Do you like it?” Tom asked when they were alone again. “London?” “Some days,” she said. “It’s a place that insists on itself. There’s a man who dances outside the chemist every Sunday in the rain. He makes it easier to forgive the rest.” He nodded, smiling again. “That sounds like the city I know.” Outside, someone hailed a cab. Tyres hissed. The after-theatre crowd put on scarves and braved the door as a small herd, bringing back a wash of wet air. Rory felt the night ease further into itself, the lights of the Nest turning the shapes of people into soft margins. “Are you seeing anyone?” Tom asked, and then immediately shook his head. “God, sorry, none of my business.” “I am seeing my stairs after this,” she said dryly. “They’re very committed to being there for me.” “Right.” He looked away, then back. “I didn’t mean—” “I know.” She did. The question was an old muscle too, one that tensed before you knew you’d asked it. He spun his water glass between his palms, the lemon flashing like a lighthouse. “I am engaged,” he said, and then, as if confessing, “Was. Until last month.” He lifted a shoulder. “She is a good person. I am—it turns out—difficult to schedule. ‘Paperwork in suits’ still means out at odd hours and forgetting anniversaries. We were kind to each other but not suited. Not in the ways that matter.” Rory caught herself wanting to feel a victory she would have laughed at herself for. She put that away gently. “I’m sorry.” “Me too,” he said, and shrugged again. “But also I’m not. You know?” “I do,” she said. The Nest hummed in approval. They fell quiet. The photographs looked down on them with their froze-n lives: men on rooftops in trench coats, a woman with a parasol at the seaside, three children wading through knee-deep water in school uniforms grinning at something just out of frame. The maps made rivers into veins and cul-de-sacs into nerves. When Tom finally spoke, his voice was steady. “I keep thinking I should ask you to have coffee. Or to take my number. Or to say, let’s try again at being in each other’s lives in one of the forms that isn’t adolescent wishes or shared notes on negligence.” He made a face, rueful. “But I don’t want to be a person who carves you into my current story because I finally know how to carry it.” She looked at his profile, the clean line of his jaw, the way his ear still went a little red when he said too much at once. She liked that he’d said that. She’d always liked the way Tom treated feelings like puzzles to be turned in his hands until they made a shape no one could lie about. “We can be people who nod in bars,” she said. “Who know where the fire door is. Who say the word safe before the verb when it’s needed.” He exhaled. She watched relief and disappointment uncouple like train carriages in his expression. He nodded. “I would like that.” He grinned at her suddenly, a flare that took years off him and then gave them back. “And perhaps sometimes, if the rain is doing this—” he gestured vaguely at the streaming window—“we could argue about the ethical obligations of dumpling delivery.” “Do not presume,” she said, mock-solemn. “Madam Yu-Fei could have you court-martialed.” He laughed; she joined him. The sound twined and then thinned. The night settled around it. Tom finished his water. He checked his watch with a wince. “I should go. They will wonder if I’ve defected to a jazz club.” He stood, smoothing the front of his jacket out of habit. For a beat he hesitated, then offered out his hand. She looked at it and then up at him. She took it. His grip was warm, attentive without pressure. He gave her hand one short, sure squeeze. Friends. The weight of that word did not crush her. It rested, like a coat put in the right place. “Goodnight, Rory,” he said. “Goodnight, Tom.” He went, the door opening to rain and green neon painting his shoulder. He paused, looked back once, the way you look at a room you’ll remember differently tomorrow, and tipped a small nod in Silas’s direction too. Then he was gone into London, into the dark that wasn’t unfriendly, into the work and the mornings that would come whether you were ready or not. Rory sat for a little while longer. The mug of ginger tea had gone cool, her fingerprints clear in a faint oval on the side of it. She could see herself in the window—her shoulder-length black hair a dark smudge, her bright blue eyes told by the neon as something baleful and alive. In the glass, the green sign flickered and steadied. Silas drifted back into range. He placed a small bowl of salted peanuts in front of her as if it had always been ordered and said, quietly, “Old friend.” “From uni,” she said. It was answer and explanation. “He orders water now.” “Wise boy,” Silas said. His hazel gaze flicked after the closed door. “You did well.” She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was keeping. “At what?” “At not mistaking the past for a room you’re obliged to live in,” he said. Then he smiled, that dry tilt at the corner of his mouth that turned ridicule into gentleness. “And at saving me from the ethical horror of discussing dumpling deliveries.” She snorted. He moved away again, the limp making a ghost-shadow on the floorboards that only people who loved him would name. When she finally stood to go upstairs, the rain had eased to a thread and the city had found that late hour when it begins to close an eye. She touched her wrist without meaning to, fingers running over the little seam of memory there. She didn’t count the what-ifs tonight. She let them be paper boats under green light. The stairs creaked as they always did. Above, her small flat was waiting, warm from the radiators, smelling faintly of tea. She climbed, a woman not mistaking the past for a room, but also not pretending it was only a hallway. Behind her, The Raven’s Nest held its stories like a low hum. On the wall, the maps made their untrustworthy promises. Down at the bar, Silas turned a glass in his hands, the signet ring flashing once as if and then not again. The neon sighed, and steadied.