Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF16BY5EDPQZ1Q4ZQWENBV

The Raven's Nest hummed with its usual evening murmur—the clink of glasses, the low rumble of conversations lost in the whiskey-tinged air. Aurora Carter balanced a tray of pints against her hip as she wove through the scattered tables. The green neon from the sign outside bled through the front windows, painting the floorboards in sickly light. She barely noticed anymore. Silas stood behind the bar, polishing a tumbler with his usual precision. His signet ring caught the light—silver flashing like a muted warning. She caught his eye, and he gave her the slightest nod toward a corner booth. A frown pinched between his brows. Rory followed his gaze. The man sitting there was unremarkable at first glance—cropped dark hair, shoulders hunched over a half-finished drink. But then he turned slightly, and her pulse skittered. Evan. It had been three years. Not long enough. Her tray nearly slipped. She forced herself to breathe, forced her fingers to steady. Three years should have been enough time to scrub the memory of his hands from her skin, but here he was, like a bruise she'd thought long healed, pressing fresh pain into her. Silas's voice was quiet when she returned to the bar. "You don't have to go over there." She wiped her palms on her jeans. "I know." "Then don't." But she was already moving. Evan looked up as she approached, and his expression flickered—surprise, then something softer, tinged with a relief that made her stomach twist. "Laila," he said, and the old nickname landed like a punch. "Don't." She didn't sit. He leaned back, studying her. "You cut your hair." It wasn't what she expected. Her fingers twitched toward the ends of her hair—shorter now, no longer the length he'd preferred. She curled them into her palm. "What are you doing here?" "Looking for you." Of course. She exhaled sharply. "How did you find me?" "Someone mentioned you worked at a bar in Soho." His gaze skated past her, toward Silas. "I didn't realize it was this kind of place." Her jaw tightened. "It's just a bar." "Is it?" His thumb traced the rim of his glass. Three years ago, that same thumb had pressed into the dip of her collarbone hard enough to leave a mark. "You changed your number. Moved. Didn't leave a forwarding address." "Yeah," she said flatly. "That's usually how leaving works." His mouth twisted. "Still sharp." "And you're still here when you shouldn't be." For a moment, silence pooled between them. The bar noise faded to a dull roar in her ears. He looked different—older, obviously, but there was something else. A weariness in the set of his shoulders that hadn't been there before. He drained the rest of his drink. "Can we talk? Not here." "No." "Five minutes." Her fingers found the scar on her wrist, a nervous habit she'd never shaken. "You don't get five minutes." "Christ, Laila—" "Rory." He exhaled through his nose. "Rory. Fine." His fingers tapped against the table. "I just want to apologize." She laughed—a short, brittle sound. "You could've mailed a card." "I needed to say it to your face." His voice dropped. "I wasn't—I wasn't good to you." Understatement of the fucking century. She wanted to walk away. She should have. But something in her prickled—not curiosity, exactly, but the need to see this through to its miserable end. "And?" He hesitated. "And I'm sorry." Three words. That's all they were. Three syllables stacked like kindling. But they didn't catch fire, didn't burn away the memory of his hands around her arms, the way he'd sneered when she flinched. Silas's voice cut in from behind the bar—too deliberate to be casual. "Rory, the delivery for Yu-Fei's is here." Blessed intervention. She stepped back. "I have to go." Evan's expression darkened. "That's it?" "Yeah," she said. "That's it." She turned before he could say more, before the part of her still stupid enough to miss him could protest. Silas handed her a set of keys as she passed the bar. His grip lingered just a second too long, a silent question. She shook her head. Outside, the London air was damp with impending rain. She tilted her face up, let it cool the heat prickling at her temples. Some things couldn't be undone with an apology. Some scars didn't fade. The Raven's Nest door creaked open behind her, and for one terrible moment, she thought he'd followed. But it was just Silas, leaning against the frame, his knee giving the slightest protest. "You okay?" he asked. She let out a long breath. "Will be." He nodded, unsurprised. He'd always known when to push and when to let silence do the work. She pocketed the keys. "Better get those deliveries done." And with that, she walked away—not running this time, just leaving. The night smelled like rain and diesel fumes. The weight in her chest didn't lift, but she carried it anyway. That was the thing about ghosts—they only haunted you if you let them. She wasn't Laila anymore. She wasn't his.