Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY865JF429VVWPVVHK48JF

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of after-work drinkers, the green neon sign casting an eerie glow through the front windows. Rory wiped down the bar counter, her black hair falling into her eyes as she worked. Silas had stepped out to "run errands"—code for whatever clandestine business he still dabbled in—and left her to mind the place. The air smelled of whiskey and old wood, the kind of scent that clung to memories. She didn’t notice him at first, not until he slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar. The movement was familiar, the way he settled in, one elbow propped on the counter like he belonged there. But the man himself was different—older, harder, his once-boyish features sharpened by time. Rory froze, the rag still in her hand. Evan. He hadn’t seen her yet. He was too busy scanning the bottles behind the bar, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the wood. She could still read him, even after all these years. The restless energy, the way he held himself just a little too still, like he was bracing for something. She exhaled, slow and deliberate, then walked over. "Whiskey. Neat." His voice was deeper than she remembered, rougher. She reached for the bottle without a word, poured two fingers, and slid it across. Only then did he look up. His eyes—still that unsettling shade of green—widened. "Rory?" She folded her arms. "Evan." A beat of silence. He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Christ. I didn’t think—" He cut himself off, took a quick sip of the whiskey. "You work here now?" "Sometimes." She kept her tone neutral, but her fingers tightened around the edge of the bar. He nodded, as if that explained everything. "You look good." She didn’t answer. The last time he’d seen her, she’d had a bruise on her cheekbone. Evan cleared his throat, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "I heard you moved to London. Didn’t realize it was this part of town." "Small world." "Yeah." He laughed, but it was hollow. "Guess so." The silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid. Rory could feel the weight of it pressing against her ribs. "You’re different," he said finally. She arched a brow. "Am I?" "Used to be you’d have thrown this glass at my head by now." "Maybe I grew up." He winced, just slightly, but she caught it. "Yeah. Maybe we both did." She studied him—the new lines around his eyes, the way his knuckles were scarred now. "You still boxing?" "Not professionally. Just sparring here and there." He flexed his hand absently. "Keeps me out of trouble." Rory snorted before she could stop herself. Evan’s mouth twitched. "Okay, fair." Another silence. The jukebox in the corner switched tracks, something slow and mournful. "You ever think about Cardiff?" he asked quietly. She wiped down the counter again, just for something to do. "Not if I can help it." He nodded, like he’d expected that. "I’m sorry, you know." The words hung there, simple and heavy. Rory stilled. "For what, exactly?" Evan met her gaze. "All of it." She could have laughed. Could have screamed. Instead, she just exhaled. "Yeah. Me too." He finished his drink in one swallow, set the glass down with a soft thud. "I should go." Rory didn’t stop him. He stood, hesitated, then pulled a card from his pocket and left it on the bar. "In case you ever want to talk. Or, you know. Throw something at my head." She didn’t touch it. Evan gave her one last look, then turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him. The neon light flickered, casting green shadows across the empty stool. Rory picked up the card. Turned it over in her fingers. Then, slowly, she tore it in half and dropped it into the bin beneath the bar.