Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX84WGD85E6AB0JRKYCMY0

The green neon of The Raven's Nest pulsed through the rain-streaked window, a familiar beacon in the Soho sprawl. Rory pulled her collar tighter, the damp London air clinging to her like a second skin. She still lived above Silas’s bar, a fact that felt both comforting and like a cage. Tonight, the usual Friday night buzz seemed muted, the air thick with unspoken things she’d learned to navigate. She pushed open the door, the chime above announcing her arrival with a tired jingle. Silas, perched on his usual stool behind the bar, wiped down a glass, his grey-streaked hair glinting under the low lights. He offered a barely perceptible nod, his hazel eyes holding an age-old understanding. Rory slipped into a booth near the back, the worn leather sighing beneath her. She scanned the room – the usual faces, hunched over their drinks, lost in their own worlds. Then, her gaze snagged. A man stood near the dartboard, his back to her, his posture unfamiliar. Yet, something in the way he held his head, the broad set of his shoulders, tugged at a long-dormant memory. He turned then, catching her staring, and the world tilted. Evan. Her ex. The man who’d made her flee Cardiff, the ghost she’d tried so hard to outrun. He was older, of course, lines etched around his eyes that hadn't been there before, his jaw a little softer. But the eyes, that predatory glint still there, though now veiled with something that might, just might, be surprise. He pushed away from the wall, a slow, assessing stride bringing him closer. He stopped at her table, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Rory? Bloody hell, is that really you?" Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. She forced a breath. "Evan. What are you doing here?" Her voice, she noted, was steady. A small victory. He chuckled, a rough sound that scraped against the quiet hum of the bar. "Same as you, supposed to be. Unwinding. Didn't expect to see anyone I actually knew. Especially not… you." He gestured vaguely at her, as if she were an exhibit. "Life has a funny way of doing that." She gestured to the seat opposite her. "Sit down, if you want." He hesitated for a beat, then slid into the booth. He looked around, a flicker of recognition in his eyes as he took in the maps on the wall, the dim lighting. "Still running this place, Silas?" "Can't get rid of him that easily," Rory said, her gaze fixed on Evan’s face. His hands rested on the table, not quite touching. The nail on his right thumb, she noticed, was chipped. A detail she’d once known intimately. Evan picked at a splinter on the edge of the table. "Heard you left Cardiff. Your dad’s still there, right? Teaching?" "He is. And Mum." She deliberately omitted any mention of her own life in London, the delivery job, the flat above Silas's. Let him assume what he would. "How about you? Still... doing whatever it was you were doing?" He winced, a small, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. "Something like that. Moved around a bit." He finally met her eyes, and the veiled look was gone, replaced by something raw and searching. "You look… different, Rory." "It’s been a while," she said, the words a dam against the flood of emotions threatening to break free. "Years." "Must be. What, five? Six?" He ran a hand over his jaw. "You used to have that hair all over the place. Always tangled. Now… it's neat. Like you." She reached up, touching her shoulder-length black hair, a habit she’d picked up from Silas. It was easier to manage than the wild curls she’d once battled. "People change, Evan." "Some more than others." He leaned back, the worn leather groaning. “You always were the smart one. The one with the plans. I always wondered where you’d end up.” "Here," she said, a wry twist to her lips. "Doesn't seem so grand, does it?" He looked around the bar again, this time with a critical eye. "It's… a place. Got its own charm, I suppose. Like Silas. Always been a bit of an enigma, that one." "He’s good people." The words were automatic, a practiced defence. Evan picked up a coaster, turning it over and over in his hands. "He always looked out for you, didn't he? Even back then." A knot tightened in Rory's stomach. "He's a friend." "A very good friend, clearly." His voice was low, a sardonic edge to it that made her skin prickle. "I remember you saying once, about your dad, that his biggest fear was that you’d end up with someone who’d dim your light. Guess that didn’t quite work out, did it?" "It didn't." She met his gaze, her own blue eyes cool and steady. "But I found my way back to the light, Evan. Took some detours, but I’m here." He finally tossed the coaster back onto the table. "Good. Because you had a very bright light, Rory. Shame to see it ever go out." He paused, a long, uncomfortable silence stretching between them, punctuated only by the clinking of glasses. "You know, I had a dream about you the other night. We were back at that old pub in Cardiff. The one with the terrible sticky floors. You were laughing." Rory swallowed. The memory of that laughter, genuine and unrestrained, felt like a lifetime ago. "I don't remember that pub." "You wouldn't. Not the way I do." He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "I was thinking, maybe… maybe things could have been different. If I hadn’t… if you hadn’t left." "That’s a big 'if', Evan." She watched his hands. He’d stopped fiddling with the coaster. His left hand rested palm-down on the table, and she saw it then, beneath the dim light, a faint, barely discernible shape. A crescent moon. A scar. Exactly like the one on her own left wrist. "Yeah," he breathed, his eyes dropping to his hand, then flicking back to hers, a dawning, dreadful understanding in their depths. "Yeah, it is."