AI The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest pulsed, a sickly emerald beacon in the Soho twilight. Rory pushed through the heavy oak door, the chime above jingling a familiar tune. Inside, the usual low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air, a comfort she’d grown to associate with home. She lived in the flat above, after all.
Her eyes scanned the room, automatically searching for the bar’s owner. Silas was behind the counter, as always, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the dim light. His neatly trimmed beard framed a face etched with a lifetime of quiet authority. He moved with a slight limp, a permanent souvenir from some forgotten mission, as he wiped down the polished wood, his silver signet ring flashing.
Rory waved, then navigated the cramped space between tables and stools, nodding to a few regulars. She settled onto her usual stool at the far end of the bar, a spot that offered a clear view of the entire room, and, more importantly, a shortcut to the staff entrance that led to her flat.
“Evening, Silas,” she said, her voice a low murmur.
He glanced up, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Rory. Rough day delivering for Yu-Fei?”
She sighed, running a hand through her straight, shoulder-length black hair. “You could say that. Some tourist decided a one-way street was merely a suggestion.”
Silas chuckled, pouring her a pint of her usual ale without a word. “Sounds about right for this city. Anything new?”
“Just the usual chaos. How about you? Any international incidents stopped today?” A playful jab, referencing his past life as an MI6 operative, a life she’d only recently learned about.
He merely smiled, a private, knowing look. “Nothing so dramatic, thankfully. Just keeping the peace in this corner of London.”
Rory took a long pull from her pint, the cool bitterness a welcome antidote to the day’s frustrations. Her gaze drifted across the room, past the old maps and black-and-white photographs adorning the walls, past the huddled groups lost in their own worlds. Then, her eyes snagged on a figure seated at a small, round table near the back, partially obscured by a potted fern.
A man. His back was to her, but something about the set of his shoulders, the way he held his glass—a half-finished whiskey — sent a sudden chill snaking down her spine. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. No. It couldn’t be.
He shifted, turning slightly , and her breath hitched. Her bright blue eyes widened , fixed on the familiar curve of his jaw, the dark, almost black, hair that used to fall perpetually into his eyes. Evan.
The name was a whisper in the back of her mind, a ghost from a life she’d painstakingly tried to bury. She hadn’t seen him in years, not since she’d fled Cardiff, leaving her pre-law studies and a tangled mess behind. He looked different, thinner somehow, his frame sharper, more angular. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit, a stark contrast to the faded band t-shirts and worn jeans she remembered.
Part of her wanted to duck, to pretend she hadn't seen him. To slip out the back, up to her flat, and forget he existed. But another part, the resilient core that had seen her through the last few years, refused to cower. She was Rory Carter now, not the timid Laila he’d once known.
He finished his drink, flagging down a passing waiter. As he turned to place his order, his eyes swept across the room. They landed on her. For a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face—surprise, confusion, then a slow, dawning recognition.
A smile, tentative at first, then broadening, stretched across his lips. It was the same smile that used to make her heart melt, the one that masked a darker current.
He pushed back his chair and started to wards her, his stride confident, effortless. Rory felt a knot of anticipation tighten in her stomach. She braced herself, taking another long drink from her pint, the cold glass a small anchor in her trembling hand.
“Rory?” His voice was deeper, smoother than she remembered, but the underlying cadence was unmistakable.
She lowered her glass, meeting his gaze. “Evan.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within her.
He stopped in front of her, a few feet away, his smile still in place, though a flicker of uncertainty now shadowed his dark eyes. “I… I can’t believe it’s you. I almost didn’t recognize you. You changed your hair.”
“People do that,” she replied, her tone clipped. Her shoulder-length black hair used to be a dull blonde, a color she’d chosen to erase some part of her past. She noticed the slight crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a small, pale line against her skin, and unconsciously, her fingers went to it, tracing its outline.
He chuckled, a short, self-deprecating sound. “Right. Of course. It’s… good to see you, Rory.” He paused, searching her face. “You look… good. Really good.”
The compliment felt hollow, an empty platitude. She offered a tight smile in return. “What are you doing here, Evan?”
His smile faltered. “Business. I live in London now. Been here for a few years.”
“London’s a big city.”
“It is,” he agreed, his eyes sweeping over her, taking in her simple jeans and t-shirt, so different from the polished image he now presented. “You clearly still like the pubs and… quaint charm.” He gestured vaguely around The Raven’s Nest, a subtle jab at its unpretentious décor.
“It’s home,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “And Silas is a friend.”
He nodded slowly . “Silas. Right. So you… work here?”
“I live above the bar. I deliver for a Chinese restaurant down the road. Golden Empress.”
He blinked. “A delivery driver? Rory, I thought you were going to be a barrister. What happened to… law?”
The question hung in the air , weight ed with years of unspoken regret. She felt a prickle of annoyance. “Life happened, Evan. Things change.”
His gaze lingered on her, a mixture of genuine curiosity and something else she couldn’t quite decipher. Pity, maybe. “I suppose they do. I’m working for a law firm here, big corporate stuff. I specialized in international banking fraud.”
“That’s… impressive.” The words felt like ash in her mouth. She remembered him talking about law, about his ambition, always a step ahead of her, pushing her.
“It is. It’s demanding, but rewarding. I’ve made partner, actually.” He said it with a casualness that betrayed the underlying pride.
“Congratulations.” The bitterness in her voice was almost imperceptible, hidden beneath a layer of forced civility.
He shifted his weight , his eyes uncomfortably meeting hers. “Look, Rory, can we… talk for a minute? Properly? It’s been a long time.”
She hesitated, then glanced at Silas, who was subtly watching them, a knowing look in his hazel eyes. He’d seen her reaction the moment she’d recognized Evan.
“Fine,” she said, her voice flat. “But not here. There’s a quiet corner in the back.” She gestured towards the hidden back room, accessible through a bookshelf, usually reserved for Silas’s clandestine meetings.
He followed her, a strange mixture of relief and apprehension on his face. She pushed open the deceptively heavy bookshelf, revealing a small, stark room with a single table and two chairs. No maps, no photos – just bare walls and a single dim lamp.
They sat, facing each other across the table. The silence stretched , thick and uncomfortable.
“You still haven’t introduced me to your friend,” Evan said, breaking the quiet. “The owner of this… establishment.”
“Silas is more than an owner. He’s a good man.”
He nodded slowly . “Right. Of course.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his manicured hands clasped in front of him. “Rory, I… I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For everything.”
The words, so long overdue, hung in the air , heavy with the weight of years. She met his gaze, her bright blue eyes unwavering . “Are you?”
His dark eyes held hers. “Yes. I was… a different person back then. Young, stupid, self-centered. I put you through hell. I know that.”
She felt a flicker of surprise at his candor, but it quickly faded into a familiar weariness. “You did.”
“And I regret it. Every day. I’ve grown up, Rory. I’ve changed.”
She looked at him, really looked at him. The expensive suit, the confident bearing, the polished words. He looked like a success, a man who had conquered London, just as he had always intended. But beneath the veneer, she saw something else, a shadow in his eyes, a tension around his mouth that hadn't been there before.
“We all change, Evan,” she said softly , her voice devoid of its earlier sharpness. “Sometimes for the better. Sometimes not.”
He flinched. “I really have. I’m in therapy, I’ve worked on my issues. I’m not… that person anymore.”
“I hope that’s true,” she said, her voice still quiet. The scars of the past ran deep, not just the small crescent on her wrist, but the invisible ones etched onto her soul. “But it doesn’t erase what happened.”
“No,” he conceded, his voice low. “It doesn’t. But I thought… maybe we could at least talk. Catch up. For old times’ sake.”
“Old times’ sake?” A dry laugh escaped her. “Those old times nearly broke me, Evan.”
He recoiled, as if she’d struck him. “I know,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “And I live with that. Every single day. But I also remember the good times, Rory. We had good times, didn’t we?”
She closed her eyes, a fleeting image of them laughing in the rain on a Cardiff street, a distant memory that tasted bittersweet. “We did,” she admitted. “Before things went… sour.”
The silence returned, more charged than before. The weight of their shared history, of unspoken words and deep-seated pain, pressed down on them.
“I heard you left Cardiff,” he said, breaking the quiet once more. “I tried to find you, for a while. To apologize properly.”
“I didn’t want to be found,” she said, opening her eyes. “I needed to disappear. To start over.”
“And have you?” he asked, his gaze searching hers, looking for something she wasn’t sure she wanted him to find.
She thought of her quiet life above Silas’s bar, the camaraderie with the regulars, the simple satisfaction of a hard day’s work for Yu-Fei, the unexpected twists and turns her life had taken. She thought of the woman she had become—cool-headed, intelligent, quick-witted, no longer afraid.
“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze evenly. “I have.”
He looked at her for a long moment, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place in his dark eyes—sadness, perhaps, or a profound understanding.
“Good,” he said, a quiet exhale. “I’m glad to hear that, Rory . Truly.”
The air between them seemed to lighten, just a fraction. The tension hadn’t entirely dissipated, but it had softened, leaving behind a lingering sense of melancholy. Two old friends, or what was left of them, caught in the quiet aftermath of a storm long past.