Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRA103320NNCC59HRWY023

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter. The air smelled of aged whiskey and polished wood, the kind of scent that clung to the walls like a second skin. Rory leaned against the bar, fingers tracing the rim of her half-empty gin and tonic. The ice had long since melted, watering down the sharpness of the drink, but she didn’t mind. It was the ritual of it that mattered—the way the glass felt in her hand, the way the alcohol burned just enough to make her feel something. The door creaked open, letting in a draft that carried the scent of rain and wet pavement. A man stepped inside, shaking water from his coat. He moved with the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing exactly where he belonged, his hazel eyes scanning the room before landing on her. Rory’s breath hitched. Evan. His hair was shorter now, cropped close to his skull, and the scruff along his jaw was more salt than pepper. He’d filled out, too—broader in the shoulders, the kind of build that came from time in a gym or, more likely, from years of carrying something heavier than weights. His gaze locked onto hers, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Then he smiled. Not the easy, charming grin she remembered, but something tighter, something that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rory Carter,” he said, voice low. “I’ll be damned.” She set her glass down. “Evan.” He crossed the room in a few long strides, pulling out the stool beside her. The wood groaned under his weight. “It’s been what, five years?” “Six.” “Six,” he repeated, nodding like he’d done the math himself. He signaled to the bartender—a young guy with a nose ring who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—and ordered a whiskey, neat. “You look good.” She almost laughed. “You don’t.” His fingers stilled around the glass the bartender slid toward him. “No?” “You look like you’ve been through hell.” He took a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers. “Haven’t we all?” The silence between them stretched, thick with everything they weren’t saying. The last time she’d seen him, he’d had his hands around her wrists, her back pressed against the wall of their flat. She’d screamed until her voice gave out, until the neighbors called the police. He’d been arrested, but the charges had been dropped—his father’s influence, his family’s money. She’d left Cardiff the next day, changed her number, burned every bridge that led back to him. And now here he was, sitting beside her like none of it had ever happened. “What are you doing in London?” she asked, because the alternative was to ask why he was here, in this bar, in her life again. “Business,” he said. “And you?” “Same.” He smirked. “Still delivering takeout?” Her fingers tightened around her glass. “Still pretending you’re not a spoiled rich kid playing at being important?” The smirk faded. “I deserved that.” “You deserved worse.” The whiskey in his glass caught the light as he swirled it, the amber liquid clinging to the sides. “I’m not the same person I was, Rory.” “People don’t change, Evan. They just get better at hiding.” He exhaled through his nose, a sharp sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so bitter. “You always did have a way with words.” “And you always had a way of making me regret ever opening my mouth.” The bartender dropped a bowl of peanuts between them, the sudden noise making her jump. Evan didn’t react. He just stared at his drink like it held all the answers he’d ever need. “Do you ever think about it?” he asked quietly. “That night?” She didn’t have to ask which night. “Every damn day.” He flinched. Just a little, just enough for her to notice. “I do too.” “Good.” His jaw tightened. “I’m not asking for forgiveness.” “Then what are you asking for?” He opened his mouth, then closed it. The signet ring on his finger glinted as he flexed his hand, a nervous habit she remembered all too well. “I don’t know.” The door to the back room swung open, and Silas stepped out, his limp more pronounced than usual. His gaze flicked between them, sharp and assessing. “Rory,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “Everything alright?” She forced a smile. “Fine. Just catching up with an old friend.” Silas’ eyes lingered on Evan for a beat too long before he nodded. “Don’t stay too late. Weather’s turning.” The door swung shut behind him, leaving them in the dim glow of the bar. Evan leaned in, his voice low. “Who’s that?” “None of your business.” He studied her for a long moment, then sat back, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re different.” “So are you.” “No, I mean—” He gestured vaguely at her. “You’re harder. Colder.” She barked out a laugh. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” “It’s not,” he said quickly. “It’s just… I remember you being softer. Kinder.” “And I remember you being a decent human being.” The words hung between them, heavy and unyielding. He looked away first, his throat working as he swallowed. “I was an asshole.” “You were a monster.” He didn’t argue. The rain outside picked up, drumming against the windows in a relentless rhythm. Rory finished her drink in one long pull, the gin burning all the way down. She set the glass down with a sharp *clink*. Evan watched her, his expression unreadable. “Are you happy?” The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Happy wasn’t the word she’d use. Safe, maybe. In control. But happy? “I get by,” she said finally. He nodded like that was answer enough. “I should go.” She didn’t stop him. He stood, pulling on his coat, the fabric damp from the rain. At the door, he hesitated. “It was good to see you, Rory.” She didn’t look at him. “Don’t come back.” The door swung shut behind him, the bell above it jingling softly. The bar felt smaller without him in it, the air thinner. Rory exhaled, her shoulders sagging. Silas reappeared from the back room, a glass of something dark in his hand. He set it in front of her without a word. She wrapped her fingers around it, the warmth seeping into her skin. “How much did you hear?” “Enough.” She took a sip. It was whiskey, smoky and strong. “He’s not the same.” “People rarely are.” “He wanted something.” Silas leaned against the bar, his signet ring tapping against the wood. “And you?” She looked at him, really looked at him—the lines around his eyes, the grey in his beard, the way his hands had started to shake just a little when he thought no one was watching. “I don’t know.” He didn’t push. He never did. Outside, the rain kept falling.