Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQT0DMD0BK5C6H6MFQNPPR

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest pulsed a rhythmic beat against the London drizzle, casting a watery sheen on the cobblestones. Rory pulled her jacket tighter, the collar damp against her neck. Yu-Fei’s deliveries were done, and the thought of the silent flat above the bar, a flat she'd only recently claimed as her own, held little appeal. Tonight, the buzz of a crowded pub seemed a more palatable end to her day. Silas, perched on his usual stool at the end of the bar, glanced up as she pushed through the door. His grey-streaked auburn hair caught the faint light from the amber bottles, and his hazel eyes held their familiar, quiet assessment. He offered a small nod, already knowing her order. A pint of the stout she’d grown to prefer. “Rough one?” Silas’s voice was a low rumble, kindling warmth in the cool air around her. He moved with the slight limp in his left leg, the silver signet ring on his right hand catching the light as he set her drink before her. Rory took a long pull, the creamy head clinging to her upper lip. “Just a long one.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the small crescent scar on her left wrist a pale, almost invisible mark against her skin. The pub was already filling, a low hum of conversation weaving through the smoky air. Old maps and faded black-and-white photographs adorned the dim walls, each one a silent sentinel to countless stories. She turned on her stool, letting her gaze drift over the faces, a mix of regulars and curious tourists. She liked the anonymity of it, the way she could blend into the background. It was a comfort she hadn’t realized she craved until she’d found it here, a stark contrast to the small-town scrutiny of Cardiff. Then her eyes snagged on a figure by the arched doorway, halfway through a laugh, head thrown back. The sound was a jarring echo from a past she’d painstakingly tried to bury. Her breath caught. The laugh. The set of the shoulders. And the eyes, a striking green that she’d once known better than her own. Evan. Her stomach clenched, a cold fist coiling deep in her gut. He was older, yes, the boyish softness of his face replaced by sharper angles, a subtle hardness around his mouth. His sandy hair was still shaggy, still falling across his forehead, but there was a calculated casualness to it now. He wore a dark, expensive-looking suit, the kind that whispered of tailor-made confidence, rather than the worn jeans and band t-shirts she remembered. He was talking animatedly to a sleek, dark-haired woman whose laughter tinkled like wind chimes. Rory felt a strange mix of recognition and utter unfamiliarity. This person, this polished stranger, couldn’t be the same Evan who’d shared her dreams, then shattered them. The air grew thick, pressing in on her. She wanted to turn away, to sink into the shadows, but her gaze was locked, morbidly fascinated by the transformation. He moved, excusing himself from the woman with a charming smile, and started toward the bar. Rory instinctively hunched over her pint, her straight shoulder-length black hair falling forward, a curtain against discovery. Too late. He was too close. “Rory?” The voice, still that familiar low timber, but now refined, somehow smoother, sent a shiver down her spine. She pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her movements stiff. She turned slowly, her bright blue eyes, now harder, meeting his. “Evan,” she said, her voice a flat monotone. The name tasted like ash on her tongue. A slow smile spread across his face, a smile that used to charm her to her core, but now felt like a carefully constructed mask. “I knew it was you! I recognized that fierce glare anywhere.” He chuckled, a light, easy sound. “My god, it’s been… what? Four years? Five?” She didn’t correct him. She wouldn't give him that much. “Something like that.” He gestured to the empty stool beside her. “Mind if I…?” He didn’t wait for an answer, pulling it out and settling onto it with a fluid grace she didn’t remember him possessing. He signaled to Silas, who approached with his usual calm efficiency. “Whiskey, neat, please.” He turned back to Rory, his green eyes, once so open, now held a glint of something unreadable. “This is a surprise. Last I heard, you were still stuck in Cardiff, chasing your father’s dream.” The casual barb struck its mark. Rory’s jaw tightened. "Things change, Evan." “Clearly.” His gaze swept over her, taking in her practical delivery jacket, her lack of makeup, a stark contrast to the glamorous woman he’d been with. Yet, there was no judgment in his voice, only a detached observation. “You always did hate the law. What are you doing now? Still delivering pizzas, then?” She bristled. “Food delivery, yes. For a good restaurant.” She paused, then, unable to resist, "And what about you? Trading stocks or something equally soulless?” He laughed, a genuine, albeit brief, flash of the old Evan. “Something like that. A lot of late nights, a lot of early mornings. But it pays the bills, and then some.” He took the whiskey from Silas, raising it slightly in an almost-toast. “To unexpected reunions.” Rory didn’t reciprocate. She just gripped her pint, her knuckles white. “Surprise is an understatement.” “You always were one for understatement.” His eyes held hers, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place – regret? Curiosity? “You just… vanished. No call, no email. Nothing. I was worried sick.” The words were a bitter pill. She swallowed it down with a gulp of stout. “I thought I made myself clear.” Clear enough when she’d left Cardiff, the finality of it an aching wound. “I only remember you storming out in a rage, as usual.” His voice was light, but the implication hung heavy in the air. *You were the angry one. You were the problem.* Rory’s glare sharpened. “Funny, I remember different.” The memory of his cold words, the way he’d belittled her, the slow erosion of her confidence, still stung like a fresh cut. The quiet terror of walking on eggshells, fearing his next mood swing. He sighed, a practiced, melancholic sound. “Always so dramatic, Rory. We had our ups and downs, like any couple. But I always loved you.” She almost choked on her beer. “Love?” The word tasted like poison. “What you had for me wasn’t love, Evan. It was… ownership.” His easy smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of defensiveness. “That’s a harsh thing to say. I just wanted what was best for you. For us. You were so directionless sometimes. I was trying to help.” “Help?” Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with unspent anger. “You wanted to mold me into whatever perfect little barrister’s wife you envisioned. You didn’t care what *I* wanted.” The sleek woman he’d been talking to earlier glanced over, her brow furrowed slightly at the sudden tension. Evan offered her a quick, reassuring smile, then leaned closer to Rory, his voice dropping. “Look, I know things ended badly. And I regret that. Truly. I’ve grown up a lot since then. I’m not that same person.” He looked different, yes. More polished, more confident, more… controlled. But the underlying current, the subtle manipulation in his words, the way he still tried to paint her as the volatile one, the unreasonable one – that felt chillingly familiar. “People don’t really change, Evan,” Rory said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “They just get better at hiding what they are.” His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. “That’s a cynical view. And not like the Rory I knew. You used to be so full of life, so hopeful.” “The Rory you knew is gone,” she countered, a fierce pride in her voice masking the tremor in her hands. “She died a long time ago. And I’m glad for it.” A silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Evan took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gaze distant, contemplative. Then he met her eyes again, a glint of something almost vulnerable in their depths. “I did wonder about you,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “After you left. I used to drive by your old flat, hoping, I don’t know, to see if you’d come back. To apologize properly.” The words were an olive branch, carefully extended. But Rory had seen too many such gestures from him, each one a prelude to another subtle wound. She remembered the fear of feeling small, of her thoughts and feelings being dismissed. No, the person she was now, the Rory who navigated London streets alone, who had found a fragile peace in the anonymity of the city, couldn't risk letting that past back in. “Apology accepted,” she said, her voice clipped, closing off any further conversation on the matter. She drained the last of her stout, the bitterness a familiar comfort. “But some things, Evan, you just can’t fix.” She slid off the stool, her heart still thrumming a frantic beat against her ribs. She gave him a curt nod, a dismissal, then turned and walked towards the back of the bar, towards the hidden bookshelf that led to Silas’s secret room, a place where she could finally breathe free. She didn’t look back, but she felt his gaze on her, a phantom touch on her spine, even as the walls of The Raven's Nest closed around her, offering their familiar, protective embrace.