AI The green neon of The Raven's Nest cast sickly shadows across the rain-slicked pavement as Aurora pushed through the heavy door. The familiar smell of whiskey and old wood wrapped around her like a worn coat. She'd meant to head straight up to her flat—the delivery shift at the Golden Empress had left her smelling of sesame oil and exhaustion—but the sound of Silas laughing, really laughing, pulled her toward the bar.
He stood behind the polished mahogany, his grey-streaked auburn beard catching the amber light as he poured for someone Aurora couldn't quite see . The slight favor he gave his right leg was more pronounced tonight. Bad weather always made the old injury worse.
"—and then Morrison says, 'That's not a diplomat, that's my wife!'" The voice sent ice through Aurora's veins. She knew that voice, knew the precise cadence of its storytelling, the way it rose and fell like tide against familiar shores.
Silas wiped tears from his eyes, still chuckling. "Christ, Eva. Haven't heard that one in years."
Eva. Of course it was Eva.
Aurora's feet had already started their retreat when Silas spotted her. "Rory! Perfect timing. Look who wandered in from the rain."
Eva turned on her barstool, and for a moment, neither woman moved. Five years had sharpened Eva's features, carved elegant hollows beneath cheekbones that had once been round with youth and cheap wine. Her hair, which Aurora remembered as a chaotic mass of copper curls, now fell in sleek waves past her shoulders. The ratty band t-shirts and ripped jeans had given way to a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Aurora made in three months.
"Rory." Eva's voice caught on the nickname, as if she'd forgotten she had the right to use it.
"It's Aurora now." The correction came out harder than intended. Aurora forced herself forward, each step measured . "Hello, Eva."
Silas's hazel eyes flicked between them, reading the tension with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent decades parsing hostile territories. He reached for another glass. "Whiskey?"
"Just water." Aurora slid onto a stool, leaving an empty seat between them. The small crescent scar on her wrist caught the light as she rested her hands on the bar. "Long day."
"Still at the Golden Empress?" Eva's perfectly manicured fingers—when had she started getting manicures?—wrapped around her tumbler. "Mrs. Cheung still trying to set you up with her nephew?"
The familiar reference sat wrong in Eva's mouth, like hearing a stranger hum your mother's lullaby. "Yu-Fei's good to me."
"That's not what I asked."
"No," Aurora said, accepting the water Silas slid her way. "It's not."
The silence stretched taut. Somewhere in the back, pipes groaned their age. The black-and-white photographs on the walls—Silas in Prague, in Moscow, in a dozen cities Aurora couldn't name—watched like patient ghosts.
"I didn't know you were in London," Eva finally said. She'd always been the one to break first, Aurora remembered. Even when they were kids in Cardiff, building blanket forts in the Carter's living room while Aurora's father worked late on his cases.
"Three years now."
Eva's eyes widened . "Three years? But I thought—your parents never said—"
"You still talk to my parents?" The question came out sharp enough to draw blood.
"Christmas cards. The occasional call." Eva turned her glass, watching the whiskey catch the light. "Your mum always asks if I've heard from you."
Aurora's jaw tightened. Of course her mother would keep in touch with Eva. Jennifer Carter collected people like some women collected shoes, never willing to let anyone go, never understanding why her daughter might need distance from everyone who'd known her before.
"She worries," Eva added softly .
"She shouldn't."
Silas moved down the bar, giving them space while staying within earshot—an old spy's habit. His signet ring clicked against glasses as he pretended to busy himself with inventory.
"You look good," Eva said. "Different, but good."
Aurora almost laughed. Different. As if she hadn't torn herself apart and rebuilt from scratch. As if the girl who'd fled Cardiff with nothing but a rucksack and her best friend's promise of a couch to crash on hadn't had to die for Aurora to survive.
"You look rich," Aurora countered.
Eva's laugh was bitter coffee and regret. "Mergers and acquisitions. Turns out all those hours we spent debating in the student union actually prepared me for something." She paused. "I kept waiting for you to show up at chambers. Your dad had that placement all lined up—"
"I left Pre-Law." Aurora took a sip of water, let it wash away the taste of old arguments. "Wasn't for me."
"Because of Evan?"
The name hit like a slap. Aurora's hand stilled on her glass, the scar on her wrist suddenly burning with phantom pain. In her peripheral vision, she saw Silas straighten, alert to the shift in tension .
"Don't." The word came out low, dangerous.
"Rory—Aurora. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." Aurora met her eyes, saw Eva flinch at whatever she found there. "You always mean exactly what you say. It's what made you such a good debater."
"And you always knew how to twist the knife," Eva shot back, then immediately deflated. "Shit. I'm sorry. That's not—I didn't come here to fight."
"Why did you come here?"
Eva gestured vaguely at the bar, at Silas, at the photographs of cities and secrets. "Networking event down the street. Saw the sign and remembered—" She stopped, started again . "I've been in London for two years. I always wondered if you made it here. If you were okay. When you stopped answering my calls, I thought maybe—"
"I changed my number."
"I know. I tried to—" Eva took a long pull of whiskey. "I went to your parents. They didn't know where you were. Your mum cried. Your dad just looked… hollow."
Aurora's chest tightened. She could picture it too clearly: her mother's tears, her father's disappointed silence . The weight of being Brendan Carter's daughter, the one who was supposed to follow in his footsteps , who threw it all away for reasons she couldn't—wouldn't—explain.
"They're better off," she said.
"They're not." Eva's voice carried the authority of someone who'd sat across their kitchen table, who'd seen the empty chair and the photos turned face-down. "And neither are you."
"You don't know anything about me anymore."
"I know you're delivering takeaway when you could be arguing cases. I know you're living above a bar instead of—"
"Instead of what?" Aurora's voice rose. "Instead of staying in Cardiff? Instead of pretending everything was fine? Instead of letting Evan—" She bit off the words, aware of the other patrons, of Silas's worried glance.
Eva went very still. "I didn't know how bad it was. You never told me."
"I tried."
"No, you hinted. You made jokes. You showed up with bruises and called them clumsy." Eva's composure cracked, revealing something raw underneath. "And then one day you just called and said 'I'm leaving' and I had twelve hours to find you somewhere to stay before you showed up on my doorstep looking like—" She stopped, swallowed . "Looking like someone I didn't recognize."
The memory hung between them: Aurora, hollow-eyed and shaking, standing in Eva's London doorway with everything she owned in a single bag. The promises made in desperation. The friendship that couldn't survive the weight of what had driven her there.
"I scared you," Aurora said quietly.
"You terrified me." Eva's laugh was waterlogged . "My brilliant, indestructible best friend, reduced to—" She gestured helplessly . "And I didn't know how to help. Everything I suggested, you shot down. Every time I tried to talk about it, you shut me out. And then you just… vanished."
"You wanted me to press charges. To go back. To face him in court with my father watching from the gallery."
"I wanted you to fight back!"
"I was fighting." Aurora's voice dropped to barely above a whisper . "Getting up every morning was fighting. Learning to sleep without checking the locks twelve times was fighting. Building a life where no one knew who I used to be—that was fighting."
Eva's eyes glistened. "I know that now. I didn't then. I was twenty-three and thought I could fix everything with the right argument, the right logic." She laughed bitterly . "Turns out you can't debate someone out of trauma. Who knew?"
Despite everything, Aurora felt her lips twitch. "They should add that to the law school curriculum."
"Right after 'Your Best Friend Isn't Your Client' and 'Some Problems Can't Be Solved with Precedent.'"
They sat in the almost-comfortable silence that followed, the ghost of who they'd been flickering between them. Aurora could almost see her: the girl who'd dreamed of following her father's footsteps , who'd debated constitutional law over cheap wine in Eva's student flat, who'd thought love was supposed to hurt just a little, until it hurt too much.
"I looked for you," Eva said finally. "For months. I called every chamber in London, thinking maybe you'd changed your mind about law. Checked with all the old uni crowd. Even hired a private investigator for a bit, until that felt too much like—"
"Like something he would do."
Eva nodded. "I kept your room for a year. Just in case."
The kindness of it was almost unbearable. Aurora had convinced herself that Eva had been relieved when she left, freed from the burden of a friend too broken to fix. But a kept room, a hired investigator, calls to parents who had no answers—that was grief. That was love with nowhere to go.
"I needed to disappear," Aurora said. "It wasn't about you."
"I know that now." Eva finished her whiskey, gestured to Silas for another. "Therapy's a wonderful thing."
"You? In therapy?" Aurora couldn't hide her surprise. The Eva she'd known believed any problem could be solved with enough research and determination.
"Turns out when your best friend vanishes and you blame yourself, someone eventually suggests you talk to a professional." Eva accepted her fresh drink with a nod. "Dr. Patel . Every Thursday for two years. She'd be very proud I'm not trying to fix this conversation."
"Is that what this is? A conversation?"
"I don't know." Eva traced the rim of her glass. "What do you call it when you accidentally find someone you've been grieving?"
The word sat heavy between them. Grieving. As if Aurora had died. And maybe she had, in a way. Maybe that's what it took to survive sometimes—killing the person you were supposed to be.
"I work here," Aurora said suddenly . "Not just live. I help Silas with the books sometimes, manage supplies. It's not just delivery."
"Okay."
"And I take classes. Online. Literature, mostly. Some creative writing." The words tumbled out, a resume for a job that didn't exist. "I'm not just—I'm building something."
"Okay," Eva said again, softer .
"It's not what anyone expected. It's not what I expected. But it's mine."
Eva turned to face her fully, and Aurora saw the tears she'd been holding back. "I'm glad. I'm so fucking glad you're okay."
"I'm not," Aurora said, the honesty surprising them both . "Not entirely. Maybe not ever. But I'm better. I'm… trying."
"That's all any of us are doing." Eva wiped her eyes, smearing mascara she'd never worn in university. "God, look at us. Five years and we're crying in a Soho bar like we're still twenty."
"Speak for yourself. I'm not crying."
"Yet," Eva countered, and there it was—the ghost of their old rhythm, the ease they'd once shared. It hurt like a half-healed bruise, tender but bearable.
Silas drifted back, polishing a glass that didn't need it. "Kitchen's closing soon, but I could probably manage some chips if anyone's hungry."
"God, yes," Eva said, then caught herself. "Unless you need to—if you have plans—"
Aurora checked the time. Nearly eleven. Tomorrow was another early shift, another day of navigating London traffic with Yu-Fei's carefully packaged dinners. The smart thing would be to go upstairs, shower off the day, fall into bed.
"Chips sound good," she said instead .
Eva's smile was sunlight through storm clouds. "Remember that place in Cardiff Bay? With the curry sauce?"
"You always got it on your shirt."
"You always stole my chips when I wasn't looking."
"Lies and slander. I was pre-law, not pre-crime."
They fell into it carefully , testing the weight of shared memory. Silas brought chips and disappeared again, reading the room with professional grace. They talked around the edges of things—Eva's job, Aurora's favorite delivery routes, the way London could feel like a dozen different cities depending on your postcode.
Neither mentioned Evan again. Neither asked about the specifics of those lost years. But when Eva's phone buzzed with a work message, her face fell.
"Early meeting," she said apologetically . "Singapore markets."
"Sounds important."
"It's not." Eva gathered her bag, then hesitated. "I'm glad I walked in here tonight."
Aurora considered the distance between them, the empty barstool that had somehow disappeared as they talked. "Yeah. Me too."
"Would it be—could I come back? Not to fix anything or push for more than you want. Just… chips and conversation?"
The old Aurora would have said yes immediately, desperate to hold onto any piece of her former life. This Aurora, the one who'd learned to check her locks and trust her instincts, took a moment to really look at Eva. Saw the hope there, but also the restraint. The friend who'd learned that love sometimes meant letting go.
"Thursday nights are usually quiet," she said finally .
Eva's smile could have powered the city. "Thursday then."
She left money on the bar—too much, Silas would grumble—and headed for the door. At the threshold, she turned back.
"For what it's worth," she said, "I like who you're becoming. Even if I miss who you were."
Then she was gone, leaving Aurora alone with the ghost of gardenias—when had Eva started wearing perfume?—and the sound of rain against windows.
Silas returned, began clearing glasses with practiced efficiency. "Old friend?"
"The oldest," Aurora confirmed. "The one who got me out."
"Ah." He understood without elaboration. The Raven's Nest had always been good at keeping secrets. "You alright?"
Aurora considered the question, testing her emotional bruises. "Ask me Thursday."
He chuckled, the sound warm in the dim bar. "Fair enough. Now get upstairs before you fall asleep on my bar. Bad for business."
She went, climbing the narrow stairs to her flat. But before bed, she stood at her window, watching the green neon paint the rain. Somewhere in the city, Eva was heading home to a life Aurora couldn't imagine. And that was okay. They were different people now, carved by time and circumstance into shapes their younger selves wouldn't recognize.
But maybe that's what friendship was, in the end. Not holding on to who someone used to be, but making space for who they'd become . Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.
Thursday seemed very far away. And not nearly far enough.