Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6PCEZVKFH16KKPHB7AX

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest pulsed, casting a sickly glow on the rain-slicked Soho street. Rory, hunched against a biting wind, pulled her denim jacket tighter and pushed through the heavy wooden door. The familiar scent of aged wood, stale beer, and something close to cinnamon hit her first, followed by the low thrum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. Her usual stool at the end of the bar was empty. Silas, his grey-streaked auburn hair glinting under the warm lights, was polishing a tumbler, his signet ring catching the light. He looked up, a faint smile playing on his lips, and a nod was all the greeting they exchanged. Rory wasn’t in the mood for small talk, not after a day spent navigating London traffic with a lukewarm delivery bag in the passenger seat. She slid onto the stool, the worn leather cushion molding to her. "The usual, Silas." He poured a whisky, neat, without asking. He always knew. His limping gait was a comfortable rhythm in the background as he moved to serve another patron at the far end of the bar. Rory traced the condensation on her glass, the ice clinking softly. The maps on the walls, ancient and faded, seemed to pulse with untold stories, each black-and-white photograph a ghost of the past. Lately, the past felt too close for comfort. Her eyes drifted to the entrance as the door opened again. A man stood silhouetted against the neon green. A tall man. Rory’s breath hitched. He stepped fully into the bar, shaking rain from a dark overcoat, his profile catching the light. Her heart hammered against her ribs. No. It couldn't be. Not here. Not now. The man turned, and the low lights of the bar illuminated his face. His eyes, once a vibrant blue Rory had drowned in, were now a cooler, more distant shade. His hair, dark and perpetually windswept, was the same, but a sharp, almost predatory edge had hardened his jawline. Evan. He spotted her. His steps faltered for a fraction of a second, then resumed their deliberate pace. He moved towards the bar, directly towards her. Rory wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the worn leather of the stool. She gripped her glass, her knuckles white. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, usually a forgotten detail, suddenly throbbed. "Rory?" His voice, a low rumble that used to soothe her, now sent a shiver down her spine. It was deeper, more gravelly than she remembered. She didn't speak, just nodded, her eyes fixed on his. He hadn’t changed as much as she had, not outwardly. The same strong shoulders, the same height, the same way his dark hair fell across his forehead. But his blue eyes, once full of a reckless fire, now held a contained intensity, an almost calculating glint. He stopped a polite distance away, but it felt like he was crowding her. "I… I can't believe it's you. After all this time." "Evan," she managed, her voice a little too quiet. "You look… good," he said, his gaze lingering on her face, then her shoulder-length black hair. It was a well-practiced compliment, and it made her skin crawl. "You too," she lied, the words tasting like ash. He looked like a stranger, built from old parts. Silas, ever perceptive, moved closer, his hazel eyes flickering between the two of them. He placed a fresh napkin under Rory’s glass, a silent offer of a shield. Evan didn't seem to notice. “I always wondered what happened to you. Where did you disappear to?” There was an accusation in the question, carefully veiled. “I’m here,” Rory said, gesturing vaguely around the bar. A delivery job and a tiny flat above this very establishment. Not exactly the grand escape she'd once dreamed of. “London, huh? Big city. You always talked about it.” He leaned against the bar, his back to Silas. The space between them felt charged, like a storm brewing. “And you’re… here?” Rory asked, a flicker of genuine surprise in her voice. He had hated London. Cardiff was his kingdom, his playground. He smiled, a slow, deliberate movement that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Business. Expanding. You know.” She didn’t know. Not anymore. The man she'd known had been a whirlwind of impulsive ideas, fleeting passions. This Evan, with his tailored coat and measured movements, was a different creature entirely. The ghost of the boy she’d loved was in his eyes, but it was just that—a ghost, a distant memory within unfamiliar depths. "So, what brings you to the Raven's Nest?" she asked, trying to sound casual, as if her heart wasn't trying to beat its way out of her chest. He shrugged, a fluid motion of broad shoulders. "Chance. Walked by, saw the sign. Seemed like my kind of place." He glanced around the dimly lit room, his gaze lingering on the hidden entrance to Silas’s secret back room, almost as if he sensed something beyond the facade. “Right.” Rory took a long swallow of her whisky, the burn a welcome distraction. “You’ve changed, Rory,” he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “You used to laugh more.” “People change,” she retorted, a sharp edge to her voice. She felt like a trapped animal, every nerve ending screaming. His smile faded. “I know. I've changed too. For the better, I think.” He paused, his gaze fixed on her. “I’ve thought about you, you know. A lot.” Rory didn’t respond. What was there to say? *I’ve tried to erase you, to forget every detail, every casual cruelty.* "I messed up, Rory," he said, the words coming out in a rush. "I was young, stupid. I didn't know what I had." The sudden confession, so out of character for the proud, arrogant Evan she remembered, threw her off balance. She stared into her glass, watching the ice melt. "No, Evan. You knew exactly what you had. You just didn't care to keep it." He winced, a brief flicker of pain in his eyes. Or was it just surprise that she'd called his bluff? “That’s not fair. I was going through a lot back then. Pressure from my dad, the business…” “Excuses,” she said, her voice flat. “They were always excuses.” Silas, moving with the quiet grace of a man who’d seen too much, cleared a space directly in front of Evan. "Can I get you something?" he asked, his tone polite but firm. Evan finally acknowledged Silas, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Scotch. Old fashioned, if you have it." Silas nodded and turned to the array of bottles behind the bar. Rory watched Evan, the years separating them shrinking into a thin, fragile membrane. He still had that habit of rubbing his thumb against his forefinger when he was thinking, or perhaps, strategizing. "You look well," he repeated, his eyes scanning her face again, searching, dissecting. "Happy?" "I'm content," she said, deliberately choosing the word. Happy was too big, too exposed. "Good. That's good." He took a sip from the drink Silas placed before him, his gaze never leaving Rory. "I often wondered if you'd ever found someone else." The question hung in the air, weighted with a possessiveness that made Rory’s stomach clench. "That's really none of your business," she said, her voice tight. He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Still feisty. I always liked that about you." Rory’s jaw tightened. She hated the way he invoked their past, as if it were a shared, pleasant memory. For her, it was a scar, a cautionary tale. "You know, I genuinely missed you," he said, his voice softening, a practiced sincerity that rang hollow. "I really did." "Did you?" Rory challenged, her bright blue eyes boring into his. "Or did you just miss the idea of me?" The direct hit landed. Evan’s expression flickered, a momentary loss of composure. "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means you liked what I was, what I represented," she said, gaining confidence with each word. "Someone who adored you, who overlooked your flaws. Someone you could control." His eyes narrowed. The charming mask slipped further, revealing a flash of the temper she remembered so well. “That’s a harsh accusation, Rory.” “Is it untrue?” She met his gaze, unflinching. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "I made mistakes. We all do. But you just left. Vanished. No warning, no explanation. Just gone." “I had my reasons,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. The truth, raw and ugly, was a ghost in the space between them. “Reasons you know perfectly well.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I guess we see things differently, then. Always did.” He picked up his glass, swirling the dark liquid. “So. London. You’re doing well?” The abrupt shift in subject was jarring. It was his way, a conversational whiplash that kept her off balance, preventing her from digging too deep. "I'm getting by," she said. “Still doing the law thing? You were brilliant at it, you know.” Rory almost laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “No. Not anymore.” The thought of a courtroom, of the intricate dance of justice and deceit, felt alien to her now. “Oh.” Evan’s brow furrowed. “That's… a shame. You were wasted on anything else.” He took another sip of his drink, his gaze sweeping over the bar again, dismissive. “So what, you tending bar now?” “I have a job,” Rory said, resisting the urge to snap. The truth – working as a delivery driver, living above a bar – felt too small, too ordinary to lay out for him. He nodded slowly, a subtle shift in his expression that suggested judgment. "Right. Well. It's good to see you, Rory. Really." He finished his scotch in a long swallow, set the glass down with a soft click, and pulled a wallet from his inner coat pocket. He laid a twenty on the bar. “I should go.” He glanced at the clock above the bar, a silent excuse. “Got an early meeting.” Rory said nothing. She watched him pull on his coat, the fabric sleek and expensive. He paused at the door, turned, and offered a small, hesitant wave. "Take care, Rory." She just watched him go, the neon glow swallowing him once more. The door closed, and the silence he left behind felt heavier than his presence. Rory let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her hands were still clenched around her glass. Silas, without a word, topped up her whisky. "Some ghosts don't stay buried," he murmured, his gaze steady. Rory nodded, picking up her glass, the ice cold against her fingertips. She closed her eyes for a moment, the image of Evan’s cool, distant blue eyes seared into her mind. The weight of time, of unspoken regrets, pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. The past wasn't just a memory; it was a living, breathing shadow, forever lurking in the corners of her life.