Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGJ5B999S3NV6D3P37K1S

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying firefly as Rory Carter pushed through the door, the weight of her delivery bag slung over one shoulder. The scent of aged whiskey and polished wood wrapped around her, familiar as an old sweater. She’d been coming here for months now, ever since she’d moved into the flat above, but the place still carried the ghost of its former life—back when it had been more than just a bar, back when it had been *his*. She didn’t expect to see him. Silas Blackwood stood behind the counter, his back to her as he wiped down a glass with slow, deliberate strokes. The years had etched themselves into the lines of his face, the silver threading through his auburn hair, the way his left leg bore the faintest hitch when he shifted his weight. But his hands were the same—steady, precise. The hands of a man who had once known how to dismantle a gun blindfolded. Rory froze. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been seventeen, sitting in the back of his car outside her parents’ house in Cardiff, her knuckles white around the strap of her schoolbag. *Don’t tell them where I’m going,* she’d said, and he’d only nodded, his hazel eyes unreadable in the dim glow of the streetlamp. *You’ll be safe,* he’d promised. And she had been. Because Silas Blackwood didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. Now, here he was, running a bar in Soho like some kind of retired spy cliché. She should have turned around. Should have slipped out before he noticed her. But her feet carried her forward, drawn by some old, stubborn loyalty—or maybe just the sheer impossibility of him being here, of *her* being here, after all this time. The bell above the door chimed as it swung shut behind her. Silas didn’t turn. Didn’t react. But she knew he’d heard her. Knew the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his fingers stilled on the glass. “Evening,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges like gravel underfoot. “What’ll it be?” Rory exhaled, slow and controlled. *Cool-headed. Intelligent. Quick out-of-the-box thinking.* That’s what people said about her. That’s what she’d spent years proving she was. But standing here, in this bar, in front of *him*, she felt like that seventeen-year-old girl again, the one who had run because she didn’t know how to stay. “Whiskey,” she said. “Neat.” Silas finally turned, and his gaze landed on her like a physical thing. His eyes flicked over her—black hair, bright blue eyes, the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—and for a second, she thought she saw something flicker in his expression. Recognition. Surprise. Maybe even something like relief. Then it was gone. “Rory,” he said, and her name in his voice was like a key turning in a lock she hadn’t even known was rusted shut. She swallowed. “Silas.” A beat of silence. The kind that stretched too long, that held too much. Then he set the glass down and reached for the bottle of Macallan behind him. “You’re a long way from Cardiff.” “So are you.” He poured the whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light. “Different reasons.” She took the glass when he slid it toward her, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment. His skin was warm. Rough. *Alive.* “You own this place now?” she asked, taking a sip. The whiskey burned, but she welcomed it. “Bought it five years back.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Retirement suited me.” She almost laughed. *Retirement.* As if a man like Silas Blackwood could ever truly retire. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.” One corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “And you always did have a sharp tongue.” She took another sip, letting the silence settle between them again. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. Just… heavy. Like the air before a storm. “You look well,” he said finally. She raised an eyebrow. “You look old.” That got a real smile out of him, quick and sharp. “Cheeky little shit.” She grinned, just for a second, before the weight of everything unsaid pressed down on her again. “I didn’t know you were here,” she said quietly. “In London. I would’ve—” She cut herself off. Would’ve what? Looked him up? Reached out? *Apologized?* Silas studied her for a long moment. Then he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a second glass. Poured himself a finger of whiskey. “You would’ve what, Rory?” She exhaled, sharp and frustrated. “I don’t know. Something.” He took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving hers. “You were always good at running.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. She set her glass down a little too hard. “That’s not fair.” “No?” He set his own glass aside, leaning forward slightly. “You ran from Cardiff. You ran from Evan. You ran from *me.*” Her fingers curled into fists. “I didn’t run from you.” “Didn’t you?” His voice was quiet. Dangerous. “You left without a word. No note. No call. Just… gone.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she’d had her reasons, that she’d been *scared.* But the words stuck in her throat because, deep down, she knew he was right. “I was seventeen,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I was the one who got you out.” His jaw tightened. “I was the one who made sure you were safe. And then you just… disappeared.” She looked away, her throat tight. The bar was nearly empty, just a handful of regulars scattered at the tables, their murmurs a low hum in the background. The walls were lined with old maps and black-and-white photographs, relics of a life she’d only glimpsed in passing. A life she’d never truly been part of. “I had to go,” she said. “I couldn’t stay. Not after—” She cut herself off again, shaking her head. “You know what Evan was like. What he *did.*” Silas’s expression darkened. “I know.” She swallowed hard. “I couldn’t risk him finding me. Not again.” “So you cut ties with everyone.” His voice was flat. “Including me.” She met his gaze, her own bright with unshed tears. “I didn’t have a choice.” “You always have a choice, Rory.” He pushed away from the counter, limping slightly as he moved around it. “You just don’t always like the consequences.” She watched him as he came to stand in front of her, his presence overwhelming in the small space between them. He smelled like whiskey and old books and something else—something that was just *him.* “Why are you here?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. He studied her for a long moment, his hazel eyes searching hers. “Because I own the place.” She shook her head. “No. Why *now?* Why this bar? Why London?” Silas exhaled, slow and controlled. “Because I needed a change. Because I was tired of the game. Because—” He hesitated, just for a second. “Because I thought maybe, one day, you’d walk through that door.” The words hung between them, heavy and impossible. Rory’s breath caught. “You *knew* I was here?” He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. She looked away, her fingers tightening around her glass. “You could’ve found me. If you wanted to.” “I could’ve.” His voice was quiet. “But I didn’t.” “Why not?” “Because you needed to come to me.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against the scar on her wrist, the one she’d gotten the night she’d run. The night he’d saved her. “And you did.” She closed her eyes, her throat tight. “I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t know this was *your* place.” “Does it matter?” She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. “Yes.” He held her stare for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver key. He pressed it into her palm, his fingers lingering for just a second. “What’s this?” she asked. “A key to the flat upstairs.” His voice was low. “In case you ever need a place to stay.” She looked down at the key, her fingers curling around it. “Silas—” “Don’t.” He cut her off, his voice firm. “Just take it. No strings. No expectations.” She swallowed hard, her throat tight. “Why?” “Because I owe you.” His gaze was steady. Unwavering. “And because, despite everything, I still care.” The words hung between them, raw and honest. Rory looked down at the key in her hand, her fingers trembling slightly. She thought of all the years that had passed, all the miles she’d put between them, all the things she’d never said. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Silas reached out, his fingers tilting her chin up so she was forced to meet his gaze. “Don’t be. You did what you had to do.” She shook her head. “I should’ve—” “No.” His voice was firm. “You were a kid. You were scared. You did what you had to survive.” He paused, his thumb brushing against her cheek. “But you’re not a kid anymore, Rory. And you’re not scared.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she was still scared, that she still had nightmares, that she still woke up in a cold sweat some nights, her heart pounding. But the words died on her lips because, for the first time in a long time, she realized he was right. She wasn’t that girl anymore. She took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the key. “I’m not staying,” she said. “Not forever.” Silas smiled, just a little. “I know.” She looked up at him, her bright blue eyes searching his. “But I’ll come back. If that’s okay.” His smile widened, just a fraction. “It’s more than okay.” She nodded, her throat tight. Then, slowly, she reached out and took his hand, her fingers intertwining with his. “Thank you, Silas.” He squeezed her hand, his grip warm and steady. “Anytime, kid.” And for the first time in a long time, Rory Carter felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.