Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQTHXJZTH89W64EV810N3P

The Raven’s Nest smelled of aged whiskey and polished wood. Rory wiped her hands on her jeans, the chill of the London evening still clinging to her fingers. She hadn’t expected the place to be so quiet—just a handful of regulars nursing drinks in the corners, the low hum of conversation barely rising above the clink of glass. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow through the windows, painting the bar in shades of jade. She slid onto a stool, her boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. The bartender, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard, glanced up from wiping a glass. His hazel eyes flicked over her, sharp and assessing. "You’re late," Silas said, setting the glass down. Rory exhaled through her nose. "Traffic on the Strand was hell. Some protest near Trafalgar." Silas didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You always had a knack for excuses." She opened her mouth to retort, but the door swung open behind her. A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of rain and something else—expensive cologne, maybe, or just the ghost of old memories. "Christ, it’s like a morgue in here," a voice drawled. "Did someone die, or is this just your usual ambiance, Silas?" Rory’s fingers stilled around the edge of the bar. She knew that voice. Knew it the way she knew the shape of her own scar, the one on her wrist that ached when it rained. Silas didn’t look at her. "Evan. You’re early." Evan. The name hit her like a punch to the ribs. She turned slowly, her pulse thudding in her throat. He stood in the doorway, shaking rain from his coat. The years had carved lines into his face—sharper jaw, deeper shadows under his eyes. His hair, once dark and unruly, was now cropped close, threaded with silver at the temples. But his smile was the same. That easy, infuriating smirk that used to make her stomach flip. Then his gaze landed on her. The smirk faltered. Just for a second. Just long enough for Rory to see the flicker of recognition, the way his pupils dilated, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to reach for her. "Rory," he said, and her name in his mouth was a live wire. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The air between them crackled, thick with everything they weren’t saying. Silas cleared his throat. "Drinks?" Evan didn’t look away from her. "Whiskey. Neat." Rory swallowed. "Same." Silas poured, the amber liquid sloshing into the glasses. He slid them across the bar, his signet ring glinting in the dim light. "You two know each other." Evan finally broke eye contact, picking up his drink. "Yeah. We go way back." Rory wrapped her fingers around her glass, the heat of it seeping into her skin. "Way back," she echoed. Evan took a sip, his throat working. "How’ve you been, Rory?" She wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or throw her drink in his face. Instead, she lifted her glass and took a long, slow swallow. The whiskey burned all the way down. "Fine," she said. "You?" He hesitated. Just for a beat. "Good. Really good." Silas leaned against the bar, watching them both. "Evan’s in town on business. Thought I’d put him up for a few nights." Rory’s grip tightened on her glass. "How generous." Evan’s jaw tensed. "It’s just a couple of days." "Right." She set her glass down, harder than she meant to. The whiskey sloshed over the rim. "Just passing through." Evan exhaled through his nose. "Rory—" She stood abruptly, her stool scraping against the floor. "I should go." Silas straightened. "Rory." She ignored him, grabbing her jacket from the back of the stool. Evan stepped forward, his hand half-raised like he wanted to stop her. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Always running," he said quietly. The words hit her like a slap. She turned, her coat clutched in her fists. "What did you say?" Evan didn’t flinch. "You heard me." Silas rubbed a hand over his beard, his limp more pronounced as he shifted his weight. "Maybe you two should—" "No." Rory’s voice was steady. Too steady. "We shouldn’t." Evan’s eyes darkened. "Still can’t face things, can you?" She laughed, sharp and bitter. "Facing things? That’s rich, coming from you." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "You left. Not me." The air left her lungs. She wanted to hit him. Wanted to scream. Wanted to tell him exactly what he’d done, what he’d let happen. But the words stuck in her throat, thick and suffocating. Silas sighed. "Alright. That’s enough." Rory turned on her heel, her boots thudding against the floorboards. The door swung shut behind her with a finality that echoed in her chest. Evan didn’t follow. Outside, the rain had picked up, drumming against the pavement in a relentless rhythm. Rory pulled her jacket tighter around herself, her breath fogging in the cold air. She didn’t look back. Not even when she heard the door open behind her. "Rory." She stopped. Didn’t turn. Evan’s footsteps splashed through the puddles. He stopped just behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him through the damp air. "I didn’t know you’d be here," he said. She closed her eyes. "Would it have mattered?" A pause. Then, quieter: "No." She turned then, her bright blue eyes locking onto his. "Then why are you out here?" Evan’s throat worked. "Because I needed to see your face." The words hung between them, heavy and raw. Rory wanted to believe him. Wanted to let herself fall into the past, into the way things used to be. But the past was a ghost, and ghosts didn’t stay buried. She stepped back, putting space between them. "You should go back inside." Evan didn’t move. "Rory—" "Go back inside, Evan." He stared at her for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "Yeah. Okay." He turned and walked away, his shoulders stiff, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Rory watched him go, the rain blurring the edges of him until he disappeared through the door of the Raven’s Nest. She stood there for a long time, the rain soaking through her jacket, her skin. The whiskey in her stomach burned, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Not anymore.