Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNETGYJQGEZEKGNGHBEV7JQ

The familiar burn of whiskey traced its way down Rory's throat as she sat hunched over the bar, her reflection swimming in the amber liquid. The Raven's Nest wrapped around her like an old coat—comfortable, worn, smelling faintly of leather and smoke despite the ban years ago. She'd been living upstairs for three months now, but tonight was the first time she'd ventured down to actually drink rather than just pass through. "Another?" Silas wiped down the bar with practiced efficiency, his signet ring catching the green glow from the neon sign outside. "Better not." Rory pushed the glass away, watching condensation bead on its surface. "Early delivery tomorrow. Mrs. Chen wants me there by six." The door chimed, bringing with it a gust of October air and the distant sound of Soho nightlife. Rory didn't look up—she'd learned that making eye contact in bars invited conversation, and tonight she wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the worn leather of her barstool. "Rory?" The voice hit her like ice water. She knew it instantly, though it had deepened, roughened at the edges like everything else touched by time. Her fingers tightened around the empty glass. "Christ, it is you." She turned slowly, as if sudden movement might shatter whatever strange dream had conjured him here. But no—there stood Marcus Donnelly, all six feet of him, broader now through the shoulders, his university softness hardened into something more deliberate. The boyish face she remembered had sharpened, and a neat beard covered the jaw she'd once traced with her fingers in the dark of her Cardiff dorm room. "Marcus." The name felt foreign on her tongue. He moved closer, and she caught his scent—different now, expensive cologne replacing the cheap body spray he'd favored at nineteen. His suit probably cost more than she made in a month delivering Chinese food. "I can't believe it. Rory Carter, in London." He smiled, and for a moment she saw the ghost of the boy who'd spent hours with her in the university library, building elaborate arguments about constitutional law while she doodled in the margins of her notebooks. "What's it been? Six years?" "Seven." The correction came automatically. Seven years, two months, and a handful of days since she'd walked out of their shared flat without a word, leaving only a note and the engagement ring he'd given her the night before. Marcus flagged Silas down. "Whatever she's having, and I'll take a Macallan. Neat." "I was just leaving, actually." Rory started to rise, but Marcus's hand on her arm stopped her. Not forceful—Marcus had never been forceful—but heavy with unspoken please. "One drink. For old times." Silas set down their glasses with a knowing look that made Rory want to throttle him. The old spy had a talent for reading situations, and his slight nod toward the back room told her he'd make himself scarce if needed. She settled back onto her stool. "So." Marcus took a sip of his whiskey, signet ring of his own catching the light. When had he started wearing jewelry? "London. I always thought you'd end up here eventually." "Did you?" The question came out sharper than intended. He had the grace to look away. "You talked about it enough. The Inner Temple, chambers with a view of the Thames. You had it all planned out." Rory traced the rim of her glass with one finger. "Plans change." "They do." He studied her, and she fought the urge to smooth down her delivery uniform, to hide the grease stain on her sleeve from this morning's motorcycle mishap. "I'm with Clifford Chance now. Corporate law. Made partner last year." Of course he had. Marcus had always been the steady one, the one who colored inside the lines while she sketched whole new pictures in the margins. "Congratulations." "Thanks." He paused, rolling his glass between his palms. "I heard about your father." The words hung between them like a blade. Rory's hand moved unconsciously to her wrist, thumb finding the crescent scar hidden beneath her sleeve. "News travels." "He was a good man. Brilliant barrister." "Yes." She took a long pull of whiskey. "He was." Marcus shifted on his stool, and she could feel the questions radiating off him. Why didn't you finish law school? Why are you delivering food? Why did you leave? The last one had haunted her through Cardiff, through her disastrous relationship with Evan, through the midnight flight to London with Eva's voice in her ear telling her to just get on the bloody train. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "About how things ended." Rory laughed, short and bitter. "You're sorry? Marc, I left you a note. A fucking note." "I know." "You'd just proposed. Your parents were coming down from Edinburgh the next week to celebrate." "I know." "I was a coward." "You were twenty." His voice held no recrimination, and somehow that made it worse. "We both were." The bar had filled while they talked, bodies pressing closer, voices rising to compete with the music someone had turned up. But their corner felt suspended, a pocket universe where the past bled into the present like watercolors in rain. "You look good," Marcus said quietly. "Different, but good." "I look like someone who delivers Chinese food for a living." "You look like yourself." He finished his whiskey in one smooth motion. "Not trying to be someone else." The observation cut deeper than any criticism could have. Because that's what she'd been then—playing at being the dutiful law student, the perfect fiancée, the daughter following in her father's footsteps. She'd worn those roles like ill-fitting clothes until they'd choked her. "I should go." Rory stood, steadier now despite the whiskey. "Rory, wait." Marcus reached into his jacket, pulled out a business card. "I'm not asking for anything. But if you ever need—" "A lawyer?" "A friend." She took the card, her fingers brushing his. No spark, no electricity—just the warm, sad touch of shared history. "It was good seeing you, Marcus." "You too." He stood as well, towering over her as he always had. "I mean that." She believed him. That was the thing about Marcus—he'd always meant what he said. It had been one of the things she'd loved about him, until it became one of the things that made leaving necessary. His certainty had made her feel like a fraud, like every doubt she harbored was a betrayal of the future they'd mapped out together. Rory made her way to the narrow stairs that led to her flat, pausing at the bottom to look back. Marcus stood at the bar, shoulders squared, probably ordering another drink. He'd stay for exactly one more, she knew. Marcus had always been disciplined about his limits. The green neon from outside painted everything in shades of emerald and shadow. Six years ago, she'd run from the life he represented—the mapped-out future, the weight of expectations, the suffocating predictability of it all. Looking at him now, successful and solid and still somehow lost in this Soho bar, she wondered if he'd been running from something too. But that was a question for someone else's sleepless night. Rory climbed the stairs to her small flat above the bar, Marcus's business card a weight in her pocket. She wouldn't call him. They both knew it. But she'd keep the card anyway, tucked into the drawer with her father's old letters and the crescent moon scar on her wrist—reminders that the past, no matter how far you ran, always found a way to circle back. Through her window, she could see the London she'd dreamed of at university—lights stretching endlessly, promises humming in the autumn air. It looked nothing like she'd imagined then. It looked like home.