Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX25A1RCP6SKTTANB44VAA

The brass bell above the door chimed as Aurora pushed into The Raven's Nest, shaking rain from her delivery jacket. The familiar smell of wood polish and whiskey wrapped around her like an old blanket. She nodded to Silas behind the bar, who raised an eyebrow at her early return. "Kitchen flooded at the Golden Empress. Yu-Fei sent everyone home." She slumped onto a barstool, water dripping from her sleeves onto the worn mahogany. Silas poured her usual—gin and tonic, heavy on the gin—without asking. The bar sat mostly empty at three in the afternoon, just two regulars nursing pints in the corner booth beneath a yellowed map of Prague. Aurora traced the rim of her glass, watching condensation bead on the surface. The crescent scar on her left wrist caught the amber light from the Edison bulbs overhead. She'd been running deliveries for six months now, each day bleeding into the next, each pound she earned going straight to rent for the flat upstairs. The door chimed again. A woman entered, designer heels clicking against the hardwood, Burberry trench coat perfectly pressed despite the downpour. She paused at the threshold, scanning the dim interior. Aurora's hand froze on her glass. "Laila?" The woman's gaze snapped to her. Those grey eyes—she'd know them anywhere, even after seven years. Even with the expertly applied makeup and the blonde highlights that had replaced mousy brown curls. "My God. Rory." Neither moved. Silas, polishing a glass with practiced nonchalance, glanced between them. "I'll be in the back room if you need me." He limped toward the bookshelf, silver signet ring catching the light as he pressed the hidden latch. Laila approached slowly, each step measured. Up close, Aurora catalogued the changes: the sharp cheekbones that spoke of expensive gym memberships, the manicured nails, the subtle botox that kept her forehead unnaturally smooth. "You look..." Laila paused, taking in Aurora's damp delivery uniform, the shadows under her bright blue eyes. "Different." "Yeah, well. We can't all marry investment bankers." The words came out sharper than intended. Laila flinched but recovered quickly, sliding onto the adjacent barstool with practiced grace. "Gin martini. Hendrick's. Extra dry." She addressed the empty bar, then seemed to remember. "Is there—?" "Silas owns the place. He'll be back." Aurora drained half her gin and tonic in one swallow. "Still living in Chelsea?" "Notting Hill now. Richard got promoted to senior partner last year." Of course he did. Aurora remembered Richard from university—all cologne and confidence, the type who wore boat shoes unironically and called women "birds." Laila had met him their final year, right when everything started falling apart. "And you? Still in Cardiff?" "London. About a year now." "A year?" Laila's voice pitched higher. "You've been here a whole year and didn't—" "Didn't what? Call? With what number? Show up at your townhouse in my delivery uniform?" Silence stretched between them, filled only by the rain hammering against the windows. The green neon from the sign outside cast strange shadows across Laila's face, making her look like a stranger wearing her best friend's skin. "I heard about Evan." Aurora's knuckles went white around her glass. "Eva has a big mouth." "She was worried. We all were." "Were you?" The laugh that escaped Aurora's throat tasted bitter. "Must have been worried sick, what with all the texts and calls." "That's not fair." "Isn't it?" Laila's designer bag crinkled as she pulled out her phone, checking the time with movements too casual to be genuine. "I should have reached out. I know that." "But Richard wouldn't have approved. Can't have the future Mrs. Pemberton associating with the dropout who defended herself against her psycho ex." "You didn't drop out. You left." "Same difference to our lot, isn't it?" Silas emerged from the back room, moving with his characteristic limp to fix Laila's martini. He worked in silence, professional distance written in every line of his body. The drink appeared before her like magic—olive speared just so, glass frosted, gin measured to perfection. Laila sipped delicately. "I work now, you know. PR for a sustainable fashion brand." "Let me guess. Four days a week, flexible hours, company card for client lunches?" "It's real work." "I'm sure it is." Aurora flagged Silas for another gin and tonic. Her delivery jacket dripped steadily onto the floor, forming a small puddle she didn't bother to acknowledge. "Do you remember," Laila started, then stopped. She tried again. "Do you remember that night in second year? When we snuck into the law library after hours?" Despite herself, Aurora's mouth twitched. "You mean when you snuck us in. I was ready to go home." "But you didn't. You stayed up all night helping me prep for Constitutional Law." "You were going to fail otherwise." "I was drowning." Laila's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "In all of it. The pressure, the expectations. You were the only one who saw it." "Fat lot of good it did either of us." The rain had softened to a steady patter. One of the regulars shuffled to the jukebox, and soon Johnny Cash's voice filled the bar with appropriate melancholy. "I was at Harrods last month," Laila said suddenly. "In the food hall. This woman was giving the staff absolute hell about some imported cheese. Going on and on about her dinner party, how everything would be ruined. And I thought—Rory would have destroyed her. Just eviscerated her with that calm voice you do." "Did." "What?" "The calm voice I did. Past tense." Laila's martini sat barely touched. She twisted her wedding ring—platinum, naturally, with a stone large enough to have its own postcode. "Eva said you're working as a delivery driver?" "Pays the bills." "But your degree—" "Is worthless without completing final year. Turns out law firms aren't keen on hiring someone who left university under 'mysterious circumstances.'" "It wasn't mysterious. Anyone who knew Evan knew what he was capable of." "Anyone who wanted to know." Aurora met her eyes directly for the first time. "The rest found it easier to believe I was hysterical. Overreacting. You know how women get." Laila's face flushed beneath her foundation. "I never said that." "You never said anything. That was the point." The bell chimed again. A couple entered, shaking umbrellas, bringing the smell of wet pavement and possibility. Silas moved to serve them, leaving Aurora and Laila in their bubble of shared history and present distance. "I'm getting married next month," Laila said quietly. "Congratulations." "Small ceremony. Richard's family estate in the Cotswolds." She paused. "I wanted to invite you." "But?" "But Richard doesn't know about... He knows I have friends from uni, but not the specifics. It would raise questions." "Right. Wouldn't want to explain why the maid of honor is serving canapés instead of giving speeches." "You were going to be my maid of honor?" The question hung between them, fragile as spun glass. Aurora remembered late nights planning imaginary weddings, drunk on cheap wine and possibility. Before Evan. Before Richard. Before the world showed them exactly how much their friendship was worth when tested. "Yeah, well. Plans change." Laila reached for her purse, fingers fumbling with the clasp. "I should go. Richard's expecting me." "Of course he is." She stood, smoothing her trench coat, every movement rehearsed for an audience that wasn't there. At the door, she turned back. "I'm sorry, Rory. For all of it." Aurora raised her glass in a mock toast. "Bit late for that, isn't it?" The door closed with a final chime, leaving Aurora alone with her gin and the weight of everything unsaid. Silas returned, moving with quiet efficiency to clear Laila's barely touched martini. "Old friend?" "Something like that." He nodded, understanding more than she'd said. That was Silas's gift—knowing when to push and when to let the silence speak for itself. Aurora finished her drink and stood, water still dripping from her jacket. Upstairs, her flat waited—small and cramped and nothing like the life she'd planned. But it was hers, earned with every delivery, every pound saved, every day survived. The brass bell chimed softly as she headed for the stairs, leaving only the puddle beneath her barstool as evidence she'd been there at all.