Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR1HSM2GRKPFS9YEHTX2M5

The Raven's Nest smelled like it always had—whiskey, leather, and the faint ghost of cigarette smoke from before the smoking ban. Rory pushed through the heavy oak door, rain clinging to her delivery jacket. She'd meant to drop off Yu-Fei's order to Silas and vanish back into the Soho night. Quick transaction. In and out. But the bar was fuller than usual for a Thursday, and she found herself pausing near the entrance to scan the crowd. That's when she saw him. He sat at a corner table, back to the wall, nursing a tumbler of something amber. The posture was familiar—that careful watchfulness she'd forgotten she remembered. But the face was different. Harder. Where there had been an easy smile and restless energy, there was now something carved and still. His dark hair, once perpetually mussed, was expensively cut and disciplined. A silk tie caught the bar's low light. Even his hands looked different—manicured, marked with a heavy gold wedding band she'd never seen before. James Whitmore. Her James. Except he wasn't. She almost left. Her fingers tightened on the thermal delivery bag, and she turned toward the bar to make the handoff with Silas. But then James looked up. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second too long. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by something that might have been pain or panic—she couldn't read it anymore. "Rory?" She closed her eyes for one breath. Kept moving toward the bar. "Jesus Christ. Rory!" He was standing now. She could feel him standing even though she didn't turn around. The bar had gone on around them, unaware that anything had changed. Silas appeared behind the bar, hazel eyes sharp as knives, reading the situation in the way he always did. "Got a delivery for you," Rory said to him, keeping her voice light. Professional. "The usual—crispy noodles, beef in black bean sauce, egg fried rice." "Rory." James had come up beside her. She could smell him—expensive cologne, nothing like the cheap drugstore stuff he'd worn before. "Bloody hell. How long has it been?" She finally turned. Five years, nine months, and approximately two weeks. But she said, "A while." He laughed, a sound with sharp edges. "A while. That's one way to put it." He looked her up and down, taking in the yellow delivery jacket with "Golden Empress" embroidered on the back, the rain-dark hair, the same blue eyes she'd had at twenty. "You look—you haven't changed at all. You look exactly the same." It wasn't a compliment. Silas watched this exchange with the stillness of a retired intelligence operative, which was what he was. Rory took the opportunity to set the delivery bag on the bar with deliberate care, double-checking the order slip against the receipt. "Three forty-five. You can pay me next week." "Come on," James said. He gestured to his table, pulling out a chair that hadn't been empty moments before. "Have a drink. Just one. I can't believe—" He trailed off, running his hand through his perfect hair. "I can't believe it's you." "I'm working." "You're delivering food in the rain on a Thursday night. Come have one drink with an old friend." The way he said 'old friend' made something twist in her chest. "I'm in London for two weeks on business. I keep thinking about—" He stopped. Started again. "Just one drink." Silas was studying them both with an intensity that made Rory acutely aware of how transparent they probably were. She'd lived above his bar for three years. He knew about Evan, about her fled Pre-Law ambitions, about her carefully constructed small life. He probably knew about James without her ever mentioning him. She should leave. She should smile politely and exit and never come back on Thursdays. "One drink," she heard herself say. They settled at his table. James ordered her a Guinness without asking—she'd switched to red wine years ago, but she didn't correct him. He seemed to need to believe that something about her hadn't changed. The drink arrived. She wrapped her hands around the cold pint glass. "So," he said. "Delivery driver." "Delivery person, actually. And it's part-time. Flexible." She took a sip. It was colder and more bitter than she remembered wanting it. "What about you? Let me guess—finance? You always said you'd end up in the City." "Private equity." He twisted his wedding band around his finger. "Partner now. We're doing very well. You'd probably hate it—it's all spreadsheets and conference calls and golf with men twice your age who think they're hilarious." She wanted to say 'sounds perfect for you,' but that was unkind and they were trying. Instead, she said, "Congratulations." "Thank you." He smiled, and for a moment she saw the boy who'd kissed her against the library wall at uni, the one who'd said he'd never leave Cardiff, never leave her. "That's not very 'you,' though. You'd usually call me a sellout." "Maybe I've changed." He flinched. Actually flinched. "Have you?" The question hung between them like something with weight. Outside, rain hammered the window. Inside, the bar hummed with the low murmur of other people's conversations. Silas moved through the space with his characteristic limp, attending to other tables, careful not to watch too obviously. "I didn't know," Rory said quietly, "how to stay the same person I was. That girl had plans that fell apart. She had a boyfriend who—" She stopped. Started again. "She had baggage. A lot of it." "You had me. You had us." "I did. And you chose the other thing. The spreadsheets. The golf." James looked at his hands. "I didn't know how to be with someone like you and also be happy. That sounds terrible, and I know it is. But you were always so angry. At your family, at the world, at me for not being angry enough. You burned so bright that it was exhausting." He looked up. "I'm sorry. I know that's a terrible thing to say." The honest cruelty of it sat between them like a third person at the table. Rory found that she wasn't angry. That surprised her. "I wasn't angry at you," she said. "I was angry at myself for trying to fit into a life that wasn't mine. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry for that." They drank in silence for a moment. "Are you happy?" he asked. "With the delivery driving and the—" He gestured vaguely. "All of this?" She thought about Silas, about the small network of people she'd built in this city, about having space to breathe that wasn't measured in someone else's expectations. She thought about Evan, and how she'd learned to recognize the warning signs before they became scars. She thought about waking up without dread. "Yeah," she said. "I think I am." He nodded slowly, as if accepting a verdict. His wedding band caught the light again. "I'm glad." He finished his drink. "I think I always knew you'd be okay. You were always tougher than the rest of us." "Not tougher. Just willing to fall apart differently." He smiled at that—really smiled, with something like the gentleness she'd loved once. "I hope you're happy too," she added. "I really do." "I am," he said. "Most days." He set down his glass. "I should go. My wife's waiting. But Rory—" He hesitated. "I'm glad I ran into you. I think I needed to." She nodded. They stood. He hesitated, then pulled her into a brief, careful hug that smelled like expensive cologne and the ghost of something they used to be. Then he left, disappearing into the rainy London night. Silas appeared with a fresh drink—red wine, this time. He set it down without comment and walked away. Rory sat with both glasses in front of her, untouched, watching the door through which James had gone. After a while, she picked up the red wine and drank.