Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXJC578A8NJB5W31TXRGWE

The amber liquid caught the light as Rory lifted the glass, pausing mid-sip when she spotted the familiar figure sliding onto the barstool three seats down. Twenty-five years of living hadn't prepared her for this moment—seeing Marcus Webb in The Raven's Nest, of all places. He hadn't noticed her yet, too busy studying the whiskey selection behind Silas with the same intensity he'd once reserved for dissecting Shakespeare sonnets in their sixth-form English class. The boy she'd known had possessed unruly brown curls and wore his rugby kit like armour. This man bore only traces of that teenager—his hair now cropped military-short, his shoulders broader but somehow diminished, as if carrying invisible weight. "Double Jameson, neat." Marcus' voice had deepened, acquired an edge that cut through the bar's ambient chatter. Silas poured without comment, though his hazel eyes flicked toward Rory with the subtle awareness of a man who'd spent decades reading rooms. The barman set the glass down and retreated to polish glassware at the far end, giving them space. Rory traced the rim of her pint glass, debating whether to speak. Seven years. Seven years since Cardiff, since everything went sideways with Evan, since she'd fled to London like a coward in the night. Marcus had tried calling then, left voicemails she'd deleted without listening to. "Bit posh for you, this place." The words escaped before she could stop them. Marcus' head snapped toward her, whiskey halfway to his lips. Recognition dawned slowly, like sunrise through thick clouds. "Christ. Rory Carter." She raised her glass in mock salute. "In the flesh." He shifted two stools closer, leaving one empty between them—close enough to talk, far enough to flee. The gesture struck her as calculated, a soldier's instinct for exits and angles. "You look..." He paused, studying her face. "Different." "Seven years'll do that." She kept her tone light, but her fingers found the small scar on her wrist, thumb tracing the familiar crescent. "You clean up well yourself, Webb. Proper grown-up now." Marcus glanced down at his charcoal suit, straightened his tie. "Work clothes." "What sort of work requires a tie in Soho at half-past nine on a Tuesday?" "The boring sort." He knocked back half his whiskey. "You?" "Delivery driver. Golden Empress, round the corner. Glamorous stuff." The lie came easily. No need to mention the part-time nature of it, or Silas' occasional requests that had nothing to do with Chinese takeaway. Marcus had always been too perceptive for his own good, but seven years might have dulled that particular blade. "Golden Empress." He nodded as if filing the information. "Remember when you swore you'd be arguing cases at the Old Bailey by now?" "Plans change." "They do, don't they." Marcus stared into his glass. "Your mum still teaching?" "Far as I know. We don't talk much these days." "Ah." He didn't press, though she caught the flicker of curiosity. The Marcus she'd known would have pushed, would have demanded explanations with the relentless logic that made him brilliant at debate club. Silence stretched between them, filled by the clink of glasses and low conversations from other patrons. A couple in the corner booth laughed at something on a phone screen. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by the weight of unfinished conversations. "You disappeared," Marcus said finally. "Properly vanished. Even your dad didn't know where you'd gone." "You spoke to my father?" "Rang him when you stopped answering calls. Thought maybe..." Marcus shrugged. "Thought maybe something had happened." The something had been Evan's fist connecting with her ribs, but that wasn't a story for sharing. Not here, not with Marcus wearing that suit and that careful expression. "Nothing happened. Just time to go." "With Evan." She stiffened. "What about him?" "You left with him. Cardiff to London, sudden-like. People talk in small cities." "People should mind their own business." Marcus lifted his hands in surrender. "Fair enough." The gesture reminded her of their last proper conversation, the night before graduation. They'd sat by the River Taff, sharing a bottle of cheap wine Marcus had nicked from his older brother's stash. He'd kissed her then, soft and uncertain, and she'd pulled away because Evan was waiting at the pub, because eighteen-year-old Rory Carter thought she knew what love looked like. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "For vanishing. For not... for handling it badly." Marcus turned the whiskey glass between his palms. "We all handle things badly sometimes." Something in his tone made her look closer. The boy she'd known had possessed an easy confidence, quick wit that could defuse any tension. This man seemed carved from harder material, all sharp angles and careful words. "What happened to you, Marcus?" "Life." He drained his glass, signalled Silas for another. "Same as everyone else." "Bollocks. You're not the same person." "Neither are you." The accusation hung between them, neither entirely wrong nor entirely right. Rory had changed—London had stripped away Cardiff's naive edges, replaced them with wariness and quick reflexes. But somewhere underneath remained the girl who'd loved Victorian poetry and dreamed of courtrooms. "I suppose I'm not," she admitted. Marcus' second whiskey appeared with Silas' silent efficiency. He took a smaller sip this time, seemed to be pacing himself. "Remember the last day of term?" Marcus asked. "You said you'd write. Keep in touch, all that." "I meant it then." "Did you?" The question carried no accusation, only genuine curiosity. Rory considered lying again, constructing some comfortable fiction about good intentions and bad timing. But something in Marcus' weathered face deserved honesty. "Maybe. I don't know anymore. Everything got complicated very quickly." "Evan." "Among other things." She finished her pint, debated ordering another. "What do you do now? Really?" Marcus hesitated, and in that pause she glimpsed the boy who'd agonised over choosing words for the school magazine. "Government work. Nothing exciting." The careful phrasing rang alarm bells. Rory glanced toward Silas, who was studiously avoiding their conversation while somehow remaining aware of every word. The Raven's Nest attracted a particular clientele—people who valued privacy and asked few questions. "How long have you been coming here?" "First time." Marcus followed her gaze to Silas. "Friend recommended it. Said it was... discreet." The word settled between them like a chess piece, heavy with implication. Rory understood discretion, lived it daily. But Marcus had always been transparent, incapable of deception. This new version unsettled her. "I live upstairs," she said. Marcus blinked. "Here?" "Flat above the bar. Silas is my landlord, sort of." "Sort of?" "It's complicated." She traced patterns on the bar's scarred wood. "Everything's complicated now." "Doesn't have to be." The simple statement hit her harder than expected. Marcus had always possessed that quality—the ability to cut through complexity and find the simple truth underneath. But life wasn't sixth-form anymore. Simple truths had sharp edges that drew blood. "Doesn't it?" She met his gaze directly. "You show up here after seven years, looking like you've seen things that would break the boy I knew. I'm living above a bar in Soho, delivering Chinese food and pretending that's enough. Nothing about this is simple." Marcus set down his glass with deliberate care. "No. I suppose it isn't." The admission felt like surrender, and something in Rory's chest twisted. She'd wanted him to argue, to insist with teenage confidence that complexity was just fear wearing fancy clothes. But this Marcus had learned better, had paid prices she could only guess at. "I should go," he said, reaching for his wallet. "Wait." The word escaped before she could consider it. "Don't. Not yet." Marcus paused, money half-withdrawn. "Why?" Because seven years was too long to compress into twenty minutes of careful conversation. Because the boy who'd kissed her by the river deserved better than polite lies and surface pleasantries. Because she'd spent seven years wondering what might have been different if she'd stayed, if she'd chosen differently, if she'd been brave enough to answer his calls. "Because we're here," she said finally. "Both of us, in this ridiculous place, drinking overpriced alcohol and pretending we're strangers. And maybe we are strangers now, but we weren't always." Marcus studied her face as if trying to read some hidden message. Slowly, he returned the money to his wallet. "No," he agreed quietly. "We weren't always."