Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMSHSDYZABXZYBWGEQ33Q1C

The green neon sign of The Raven's Nest cast its familiar glow across the rain-slicked pavement as Aurora pushed through the heavy wooden door. She'd been living above the bar for three months now, but tonight felt different—charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with the storm brewing outside London's gray October sky. The familiar scent of aged whiskey and leather greeted her as she descended into the dimly lit interior. Old maps covered the walls like faded dreams, their edges curled with time, while black-and-white photographs of forgotten faces stared down from their frames. Silas stood behind the polished oak bar, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the amber light as he polished a glass with methodical precision. His hazel eyes lifted as the door chimed shut behind her. "Evening, Rory." His voice carried that same quiet authority that had made her feel safe from the moment she'd first stumbled into his establishment, fleeing from Cardiff and everything she'd left behind. Aurora nodded, shaking droplets from her straight black hair. She'd planned to grab her delivery bag and head upstairs to her flat, but something made her pause. A figure at the far end of the bar, hunched over a tumbler of amber liquid, seemed familiar in a way that made her stomach clench. The man's shoulders were broader than she remembered, his dark hair shorter and threaded with premature silver at the temples. But when he lifted his head and turned toward the sound of the door, Aurora's breath caught. The same green eyes that had once looked at her with such tenderness now held a hollowness that made her chest ache. "Christ," Evan whispered, his voice rougher than it had been two years ago. "Laila?" The old nickname hit her like a physical blow. Only he had called her that—a pet name born from a joke about her middle name during their university days. Before everything went wrong. Before she learned what his hands could do when anger overtook him. "It's Aurora now," she said, her voice steady despite the way her heart hammered against her ribs. "Just Aurora." Silas's movements behind the bar had stilled, and she could feel his attention sharpen like a blade drawn from its sheath. He knew about Evan—not the details, but enough. Enough to understand why she'd fled Cardiff in the middle of the night with nothing but a suitcase and Eva's promises of a fresh start in London. Evan's laugh was bitter, hollow. "Of course it is. Can't have anything connecting you to your old life, can you?" "Some connections aren't worth preserving." The words came out cooler than she'd intended, but she didn't regret them. She moved toward the bar, not away from him but not closer either—a careful distance that spoke volumes. "Drink?" Silas asked, his voice neutral but his posture alert. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the light as he reached for a glass. "Jameson. Neat." She settled onto a stool three seats down from Evan, close enough for conversation but far enough to maintain her escape route. Old habits, learned the hard way. Evan studied her profile, and she could feel his gaze like a weight. "You look good," he said finally. "Different, but good. Living in London suits you." "It does." She accepted the whiskey from Silas with a grateful nod. The burn of it grounded her, reminded her that she was here, now, not trapped in the Cardiff flat where she'd once counted ceiling cracks to avoid meeting his eyes during his rages. "I've been thinking about you," Evan continued. His voice had taken on that careful tone she remembered—the one that came before apologies that meant nothing, before promises that lasted only until the next time. "About us. About how things ended." Aurora's fingers tightened around her glass. "Things ended exactly as they needed to." "Did they?" He shifted on his stool, and she caught a whiff of his cologne—the same one he'd worn at university, before everything curdled between them. "I've changed, Laila. I know you don't believe that, but I have. I'm seeing someone. A therapist. Working on myself." The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist began to throb, an old phantom pain that had nothing to do with the childhood accident that caused it and everything to do with the night she'd pressed herself against the bathroom door while he pounded on it from the other side. She'd gripped the doorknob so tightly it had left marks. "Good for you." She lifted the whiskey to her lips, used the motion to create another barrier between them. "Everyone deserves help when they need it." "Don't be like that." His voice carried a familiar edge now, the one that used to make her flinch. "I'm trying to apologize here. To make things right." "Some things can't be made right, Evan. They can only be survived." Silas moved closer, ostensibly to wipe down the bar near her seat, but she felt the protective presence of him like a shield. His slight limp was barely noticeable as he navigated behind the bar, but she'd learned to read the signs of old pain—in him, in herself, in the careful way they both moved through the world now. "I never meant to hurt you," Evan said, and his voice cracked on the words. "You have to know that. I loved you." "No." The word came out sharp, final. "You loved the idea of me. The version of me that agreed with everything you said, that made herself smaller so you could feel bigger. That wasn't love, Evan. It was possession." She saw him flinch at her words, saw something crumble in his face. For a moment, he looked like the boy she'd known at Cardiff University—uncertain, vulnerable, human. It would have been easy to soften, to offer comfort. The old Aurora might have done exactly that. But she wasn't the old Aurora anymore. "I miss her sometimes," she said quietly, surprising herself with the admission. "The girl I used to be. She was softer. More trusting. But I don't regret losing her if it meant finding myself." Evan stared into his glass, swirling the amber liquid. "I dream about her sometimes. About you. About the night you left." He looked up, and she saw tears gathering in his green eyes. "I came home and you were just... gone. Like you'd never existed at all." "I had to disappear to survive." The truth of it settled between them like a stone dropped in still water. "You made it impossible for me to exist in the same space as you." He was quiet for a long moment, and in that silence, Aurora heard the rain picking up outside, drumming against the windows of The Raven's Nest like impatient fingers. A few other patrons had filtered in during their conversation, their voices a low murmur that provided cover for words too personal for strangers' ears. "I know," Evan said finally. "I know I did that. I know I..." He trailed off, unable or unwilling to give voice to the worst of it. "I'm sorry, Laila. Aurora. I'm so fucking sorry." She believed him. That was the terrible part—she believed his regret was genuine, believed he'd found some measure of peace in his therapist's office, believed he'd learned to name the demons that had driven him to hurt the thing he claimed to love most. But belief didn't erase scars. It didn't undo damage. It didn't make forgiveness a requirement. "I know you are," she said. "But sorry doesn't change what happened. It doesn't give me back the person I was before I learned to be afraid of you." Evan finished his drink and signaled to Silas for another. His hands shook slightly as he lifted the fresh glass to his lips. "So that's it then? We just pretend we never meant anything to each other?" Aurora considered the question, really considered it. They had meant something to each other once—something bright and hopeful and full of possibility. But that something had been poisoned, corrupted until it became a cage instead of a sanctuary. "We meant everything to each other," she said. "And then we meant nothing but pain. Both of those things can be true at the same time." She stood, leaving money on the bar for her drink. Silas nodded almost imperceptibly—a gesture that said he understood, that said she was safe here, that said she could choose to stay or go without judgment. "I'm glad you're getting help," she told Evan. "I'm glad you're trying to be better. But I can't be part of that journey. I have my own healing to do." He looked up at her then, and for just a moment, she saw a flicker of the boy who'd made her laugh in lecture halls, who'd held her hand during scary movies, who'd whispered promises into her hair in the darkness of their shared bed before everything went wrong. "Be well, Laila," he said softly. "Be better, Evan," she replied. Then she turned and walked toward the narrow stairs that led to her flat above the bar, leaving him with his whiskey and his regrets and the weight of all the words they'd finally spoken.