Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX6QSB1PFM929JVVHF6T4M

Rain tapped a dull rhythm against the windows of The Raven’s Nest, blurring the green neon glow into smears of emerald across the wet pavement. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of aged oak, whisky, and the faintest trace of cigar smoke clinging to coat hangers near the door. A jazz trio played low and smoky on the stereo—Chet Baker, something slow, something aching. The kind of night that made people confess things they’d rather forget. Aurora Carter stepped inside, shaking water from her coat. Her black hair clung damply to her neck, strands curling at the ends. She pulled off her gloves, rubbed warmth back into her fingers. The delivery bag slumped against her hip like a tired animal. Ten stops tonight. Three of them cancellations. Rain, cold, traffic—the city was punishing anyone still stupid enough to ride through it. She spotted Silas behind the bar, polishing a glass with the same methodical patience he used for everything. His signet ring glinted under the low light, catching on the rim of the tumbler. He glanced up. A flicker in his hazel eyes. Not surprise, never that with Silas—more like confirmation. “You’re late,” he said. “Bike chain snapped on Dean Street,” she said, dropping into her usual corner booth. “Took twenty minutes to fix it with a zip tie and a prayer.” Silas brought her a hot ginger tea with honey, no asking. He knew her too well. Knew the way she’d rub that crescent scar on her wrist when she was thinking. Knew how she always sat with her back to the wall. Knew she hadn’t been back to Cardiff in three years. Knew the name Evan still made her flinch, even now. She stirred the tea, steam curling into her face. “Quiet tonight.” “Not for long.” And then the door opened. A gust of cold air, rain-laced and sharp, swept in with him. Tall. Lean. A tailored coat, worn just enough to suggest he didn’t care about being seen, though he probably did. Dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, longer than it used to be, brushing the collar. A scar—thin, pale—ran along his jawline, something new. Something earned. Aurora’s spoon clinked against the cup. Then fell silent. He didn’t see her at first. Not until he turned, and his eyes skimmed the room like he was looking for someone—or avoiding. He froze. “Rory.” Her name on his tongue was like gravel and sugar. Familiar. Wrong. She didn’t move. Her hands curled around the warm mug. “Ethan.” Ethan Vale. Not Evan. Never Evan. That was the other man. The one who’d broken things. The one who’d made her run. This was different. Ethan slid into the seat across from her, shrugging off his coat. There was a weight to his movements now, a deliberation—the kind you picked up carrying things no one talked about. “You work here now?” he asked. “Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I do.” He exhaled. A half-smile. “Fair.” Silas appeared, silent, offering a glass of bourbon. Ethan nodded. No ice. “Still drinking it like medicine?” Aurora asked. “Still avoiding the hard questions?” She looked at him—really looked. The easy charm was gone. The boy who used to toss pebbles at her window at midnight, who’d sneak her out to the cliffs above Barry Island to watch the sun rise, who’d kissed her for the first time behind the library and called her *Laila* like it was a secret only he knew—that boy was buried somewhere beneath the lines around his eyes. “You cut your hair,” he said. “I cut more than that.” He leaned forward. “I looked for you, you know.” “Oh, after five years?” “I didn’t know where you—” “You had my number. Eva’s number. Mum called me for *months* asking if I’d heard from you.” “I wasn’t in a place—” “What, to answer? To explain? You just vanished, Ethan. One day we’re talking every night, and the next—nothing. Not even a note.” “I was deployed.” “You joined *MI6*,” she said, voice flat. “You didn’t go backpacking through Nepal. You lied.” “I couldn’t tell you.” “Why not? I wasn’t some fling. I wasn’t—” “I was trying to protect you.” “From what?” She laughed, brittle. “Another man who thought I needed saving?” Ethan stiffened. “That’s not what I—” “I left one of those, Ethan. Do you know how long it took me to stop checking the locks twice before bed? To stop freezing when someone raised their voice? I didn’t need *another* protector. I needed a friend.” The silence between them thickened. The music faded into the background, muffled by the weight of years. Ethan looked down at his hands. “I heard about Evan. I wanted to come. But by the time I found out—” “You were saving the world,” she said, quieter now. “I was following orders. Buried in Prague. By the time I surfaced…” He trailed off. Then, “I got injured. Knees. Nearly lost the left one. They pulled me out.” That explained the careful way he’d moved when he came in. The slight dip on one side. Aurora studied him. The scar. The weariness. The way his fingers trembled just slightly around the glass. And then, softer, “Were you even looking, after?” He met her eyes. “Every damn day.” She looked away. Outside, a taxi hissed through a puddle, lights streaking across the glass. “You used to write poems,” she said. “Remember? You’d leave them in my textbooks. Bad ones. Full of moons and oceans and terrible metaphors.” He smiled, real this time. “You kept them.” “You left them behind.” “I thought you’d throw them out.” “I didn’t.” She paused. “I burned them, eventually. After the last call. When I realised you weren’t coming back.” Ethan swallowed. “I didn’t know I *could*.” Silas moved behind the bar, refilling a glass without being asked. His limp more pronounced tonight, like the cold brought the old injury back to life. Ethan turned. “You’re Silas Blackwood.” Silas nodded. “And you’re the reason Aurora stopped believing in ghosts.” Ethan blinked. Aurora didn’t correct him. “She told me once,” Silas said, “that some people leave like storms—loud, destructive, gone in an hour. Others… they seep out slowly. Like air from a tire. You don’t notice the absence until you’re dragging on the ground.” Ethan stared into his drink. “I didn’t mean to.” “No,” Silas said. “But you did.” Aurora placed her mug down. The warmth had seeped into her bones, but it didn’t reach the rest of her. “I’m not who I was when you left, Ethan.” “I can see that.” “I deliver food on a broken-down bike. I live above a bar. I don’t go home for Christmas. I don’t answer my father’s calls unless he texts first. I see shadows in doorways. I don’t trust easy smiles.” He looked stricken. “But I’m not broken,” she said. “And I didn’t wait.” He nodded slowly. “I see that too.” Another silence. Not empty this time. Full. Heavy with what was and what couldn’t be. Ethan reached into his coat. Pulled out a small notebook. Tattered edges, water-stained. He slid it across the table. “Found it,” he said. “In an old flat in Prague. Belonged to someone who… didn’t make it out. Thought I lost it years ago.” She opened it. Her breath caught. Inside, in his messy script: > *For Laila, who walks like the sea rolls—quiet, but never still.* > *If I forget your face, let this be the map back.* She closed it. Slid it back. Didn’t touch it again. “You can’t just show up,” she said. “You can’t just say *sorry* and expect the years to melt.” “I’m not asking for that.” “Then what are you asking for?” “I’m asking if I can sit here. For tonight. In the same room as you. And remember what it felt like to not be alone.” She stared at him. The boy. The ghost. The man who’d loved her badly, left worse. And then, just once, she let her fingers brush the crescent on her wrist. “Stay,” she said. But she didn’t smile.