Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXA1ASDTYFCE4G7KREJBA0

The Raven's Nest hummed with its usual evening crowd when the door chimed, letting in a gust of October air that carried the scent of rain and exhaust fumes. Rory glanced up from wiping down glasses behind the bar, filling in for Silas while he dealt with a supplier in the back room. The woman who entered moved with deliberate precision, scanning the dimly lit interior with practised eyes before her gaze locked onto Rory's face. Time collapsed. "Christ. Rory Carter." The voice hit like a physical blow. Rory's hand froze on the glass, water droplets catching the amber light from the overhead fixtures. She knew that voice, though it carried weight it hadn't possessed fifteen years ago. "Eva." Eva Thornfield stood framed against the green neon glow of the entrance, her once-wild copper curls now tamed into a severe chignon. The bohemian scarves and vintage band t-shirts had been replaced by a charcoal wool coat that probably cost more than Rory's monthly rent. But it was the eyes that struck her most—the same green that used to sparkle with mischief now held a crystalline hardness. "Mind if I sit?" "Your funeral." Eva slid onto a barstool, her movements controlled in a way that made Rory's skin crawl. The Eva she remembered moved like quicksilver, all spontaneous energy and barely contained chaos. "Whiskey. Something expensive." Rory reached for the Macallan 18, pouring two fingers without measuring. Eva's manicured hand—when had Eva ever had a manicure?—wrapped around the glass. "So. London." "So. A barrister's suit." Eva's laugh held no warmth. "Solicitor, actually. Family law." She sipped the whiskey, her face revealing nothing. "Specialising in domestic violence cases." The words hung between them like a blade. Rory's left wrist throbbed where the small crescent scar caught against her sleeve. "How very noble of you." "Someone has to fight the good fight." "Right. Because that's what you've always been about. Fighting the good fight." Eva's grip tightened on her glass. "People change, Rory." "Do they?" A group of bankers at the corner table erupted in laughter, breaking the tension for a heartbeat. Rory continued polishing glasses, each movement mechanical. The old photographs on the walls seemed to watch them—strangers frozen in moments of joy that felt impossible now. "You disappeared." "I left Cardiff. There's a difference." "Without a word. Not even a goodbye." Rory set down her cloth, meeting Eva's stare. "What was I supposed to say? Thanks for the memories, sorry your boyfriend tried to put me through a wall?" "He wasn't my—" Eva stopped, her composure cracking just enough to reveal something raw underneath. "It was complicated." "Complicated." Rory tasted the word like poison. "That's what we're calling it?" The rain outside intensified, drumming against the windows. Eva finished her whiskey in one smooth motion, the kind of practised gesture that spoke of too many client dinners and networking events. "I came to find you, actually. When I heard you were in London." "Lucky me." "I have a client. Young woman, early twenties. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Eva's voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut glass. "Boyfriend with anger management issues. Family that thinks she should work it out, make it work, because he's such a nice boy otherwise." Rory's blood turned to ice water. "Why are you telling me this?" "Because I know what it looks like when someone runs. The way you pack everything into two bags and leave at three in the morning. The way you change your phone number and delete your social media accounts." "Eva—" "The way you disappear so completely that your best friend spends two years thinking you might be dead in a ditch somewhere." The accusation landed like a physical blow. Rory gripped the edge of the bar, her knuckles white against the dark wood. "You knew where I was." "I knew you were alive. Eventually. That's not the same thing." Silas emerged from the back room, his slight limp more pronounced than usual. He took one look at the tension crackling between them and retreated to the far end of the bar, suddenly very interested in inventory. "I couldn't stay." "You could have trusted me." "Could I?" The question exploded out of Rory before she could stop it. "Really, Eva? Could I have trusted you?" Eva's perfectly composed mask slipped, revealing something desperate underneath. "What's that supposed to mean?" "You know exactly what it means." They stared at each other across the scarred wooden bar, fifteen years of hurt and betrayal crystallising into this single moment. The pub's ambient noise faded to white static. "I loved you." The words fell between them like stones into still water, creating ripples that spread outward, disturbing everything. "I know." "Do you? Because you have a funny way of showing it." Eva's hand trembled as she reached for her purse, the first crack in her armour that felt genuine. "He used to hit you. I knew that. I saw the bruises you tried to hide, heard the way you flinched when doors slammed too loud." "Eva, don't." "And I did nothing. Nothing, Rory. Because I was twenty-two and stupid and so bloody in love with you that I thought if I just waited long enough, you'd leave him on your own." The confession hung in the air like smoke. Rory felt something break loose in her chest, a knot of pain she'd carried for so long it had become part of her skeleton. "I waited too long, and you disappeared. Just like that. Gone." "I had to." "I know." Eva's voice cracked. "I know you did. And I've spent fifteen years becoming the person who could have saved you then. Who could have given you somewhere safe to run to." She stood, leaving a twenty-pound note on the bar. The movement was sharp, final. "The client I mentioned? Her name is Sarah. She reminds me of you at that age—smart, brave, absolutely terrified. I'm going to save her, Rory. Because I couldn't save you." Eva turned toward the door, then paused. "I'm glad you survived. I'm glad you found somewhere to land." The door closed behind her with a soft chime, leaving Rory alone with the ghost of what they'd been and the weight of what they'd never become. She picked up Eva's glass, still warm from her touch, and began to wash it in slow, deliberate circles. Outside, London hummed on, indifferent to the small tragedy that had just played out in a dimly lit Soho bar, where old maps marked territories that no longer existed and photographs captured smiles that time had long since erased.