Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR1SJYWPNVWYZMXRDK7X45

The Raven's Nest smelled like it always did—old wood, whiskey, and the ghost of a thousand cigarettes from before the smoking ban. Rory pushed through the door just after seven, shaking rain from her jacket. She'd spent the last three hours delivering sesame chicken and spring rolls through Camden's maze of streets, and her legs ached. All she wanted was a pint and whatever leftover chips Silas might have behind the bar. She was halfway to her usual stool when she saw him. Evan sat alone in the corner booth, the one beneath the framed photograph of Checkpoint Charlie. His fingers traced the rim of a whiskey glass, and his eyes were fixed on the amber liquid like it might hold answers. He'd lost weight. His face had that hollowed-out look she'd seen on men who'd stopped sleeping properly, and his hair—which he'd always kept precisely trimmed—curled over his collar. Rory's hand found the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. She pressed her thumb against it, feeling the familiar ridge of tissue. She should leave. Turn around, walk back into the rain, find another pub. But Evan looked up, and their eyes met. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then something flickered across his face—recognition, followed by what might have been shame or relief or both. He raised his hand in a tentative wave, the gesture so uncertain that it belonged to someone else entirely. Silas emerged from the back, his slight limp more pronounced than usual. He took in the scene with the quick assessment of a man trained to read rooms, his hazel eyes moving from Rory to Evan and back again. His signet ring caught the dim light as he reached for a glass. "Your usual?" he asked Rory, his voice carefully neutral. She nodded, unable to find words. Her feet carried her toward Evan's booth before her brain could countermand the order. "Rory," Evan said as she approached. His voice had changed, lost its edge. "Christ. I didn't think—I mean, I heard you were in London, but I never thought I'd actually..." "See me?" She slid into the opposite side of the booth, keeping the table between them like a neutral zone. "What are you doing here?" "Drinking." He attempted a smile that didn't quite work. "Same as everyone else, I suppose." Silas set down her pint without comment, then retreated to polish glasses behind the bar. His presence was a comfort—she knew he'd be watching, knew that his old instincts never quite went dormant. "You look good," Evan said. "Don't." "I just meant—" "I know what you meant." Rory wrapped both hands around her glass. The cold seeped into her palms. "You still in Cardiff?" "Moved to Bristol last year. My firm opened a new office." He gestured vaguely with one hand. "More corporate law, less criminal defense. Turns out I'm better with contracts than people." The irony of that statement hung between them. Rory took a long drink of her beer to avoid responding. "I heard about your father," Evan said quietly. "The disbarment. I'm sorry." "Are you?" The question came out sharper than she'd intended. "He got what he deserved. Turns out embezzling client funds tends to catch up with you eventually." Evan flinched. "Your mother?" "Teaching. Still in Cardiff. We don't talk much." Rory traced a water ring on the table with her finger. "She thinks I ran away. Maybe I did." "You had reasons." "Did I?" She met his eyes, saw him look away first. "Or maybe I was just a coward who couldn't face things." "Don't do that." Evan's hand moved across the table, stopping inches from hers. He pulled it back. "Don't take responsibility for what I did. I was—God, Rory, I was awful to you. The things I said, the way I..." He ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand up at odd angles. "I've been in therapy for two years. Trying to figure out why I thought control was the same as love." Rory felt something shift in her chest, a settling of weight she hadn't known she still carried. "Is it working?" "Some days." He picked up his whiskey, set it down without drinking. "I don't see my father anymore. That helps. Realizing that I was just repeating his patterns, his voice in my head telling me that's how men are supposed to be..." He shook his head. "I'm not making excuses." "Sounds like excuses." "It's context. Not justification." Evan's eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted. "I think about that night a lot. When you left. I came home and you were just gone. I broke three plates before I realized I was proving your point." The old photographs on the walls seemed to lean in, listening. In the corner, someone fed coins into the jukebox, and Tom Waits' gravelly voice filled the spaces between their words. "Eva helped me leave," Rory said. "Packed my things while you were at the office. She kept saying I deserved better, and I kept telling her I was fine." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Funny how we lie to ourselves." "Are you?" Evan asked. "Better, I mean. Here in London." Rory thought about her flat above the bar, the creak of floorboards and the sound of closing time drifting up through the floor. She thought about Yu-Fei's restaurant, the comfortable routine of delivering food to strangers, the simplicity of it. She thought about Silas, who asked no questions and offered quiet understanding with every pint he poured. "I'm working on it," she said finally. "Some days are easier than others." "I didn't come here to find you." Evan's words tumbled out quickly, like he needed her to believe him. "I'm up for a consultation on a merger. Pure coincidence that I walked into this place." "I believe you." "Do you?" He looked at her with such raw hope that she had to glance away. "Yeah. The universe isn't that cruel or that kind." Rory finished her beer. "We're just two people who happened to be in the same place at the same time." Evan nodded slowly. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you left. I'm glad you got away from me before I did any more damage." "That's probably the most honest thing you've ever said to me." "I'm trying." He pushed his whiskey away, the glass still half-full. "To be better. To be someone I can stand to see in the mirror." Rory stood, collecting her jacket. Rain still streaked the windows, turning the green neon sign outside into a watery blur. She paused beside the booth, looking down at this man who had once taken up so much space in her life and now seemed small, diminished by his own recognition of past sins. "Good luck with that," she said, and meant it. She walked back to the bar where Silas waited, his expression carefully impassive. He didn't ask questions—he never did—but his eyes held understanding as he pulled her another pint. Behind her, she heard Evan gather his coat and leave, the door chiming softly as he stepped back out into the London rain. She didn't turn to watch him go.