AI The green neon sign cast its sickly glow across the wet pavement. Rory shouldered the heavy delivery bag higher, her breath puffing in the cold air. Golden Empress had been slammed tonight, and her last drop-off was a corporate flat two streets from The Raven’s Nest. The thought of Silas’s quiet bar, a single malt, and a booth in the corner was the only thing propelling her forward through the drizzle. She pushed the door open, the bell jangling softly .
The familiar warmth enveloped her, along with the smell of old wood, spilled beer, and Silas’s particular brand of lemon polish. The place was quiet for a Friday; a couple at the far end of the bar, a man reading a paper in a booth. Silas looked up from polishing a glass, his hazel eyes giving her a slow, appraising once-over. He gave a slight nod toward the back—his signal that the hidden room was occupied and she should keep to the front. She shrugged off her damp jacket and slung it over a stool at the bar.
“The usual, Rory?”
“Please, Si. Make it a double. It’s been a day.”
He set the glass down with a quiet thud and poured two fingers of an Islay single malt, no ice. She was about to take it to her usual corner when the door chimed again. A gust of cold air swept in, followed by a man in a long, expensive-looking wool coat. He paused, scanning the dim room, his gaze sliding past her before snapping back. His eyes widened .
“Laila?”
The old name, her middle name, the one only a few people from her past ever used, hit her like a physical blow. The glass stopped halfway to her lips. She turned.
The man was taller than she remembered, his face leaner, the boyish softness carved away into angles. His dark hair was shorter, expensively cut. But the eyes were the same—a warm, liquid brown she’d once known as well as her own. Evan. Not her Evan. A different one. Evan Pryce.
“Evan.”
Silas, ever perceptive, had gone still behind the bar, his polishing rag motionless on the glass. His gaze flicked between them.
Evan’s smile was hesitant, disbelieving. “Bloody hell. Laila Carter. I thought… I heard you were in London, but I never…” He took a step closer, shedding the aura of the confident city professional. “You look… amazing.”
She felt anything but. Her black hair was damp and lank from the rain, her hands chapped from the cold. She was wearing a faded band t-shirt under her delivery jacket. “You look…” She searched for a word that wasn’t a lie. “Different.”
“Older,” he laughed, a short, nervous sound. “Can I…?” He gestured to the stool next to hers.
She nodded, the motion stiff. Silas raised an eyebrow at her. She gave a minute shake of her head. *Stand down.*
Evan shrugged out of his coat, revealing a suit that cost more than her monthly rent. He ordered a gin and tonic, specifying the brand. He turned the stool to face her, his knee almost brushing hers. The proximity sent a jolt through her, a memory of a different kind of closeness.
“I was meeting a client,” he said, answering a question she hadn’t asked. “He’s late. Probably stuck in the bloody rain. And then I walk in here, of all places…” He shook his head, still marvelling. “How long has it been?”
“Six years,” Rory said. The number fell between them, solid and heavy. “Since graduation.”
“Six years.” He repeated it softly , sipping his drink. “You vanished, Laila. One day you were there, the next… Poof. Your number was disconnected. Socials went dark. It was like you’d been beamed up.”
“I moved.”
“To London.”
“Eventually.”
He studied her face, his eyes tracing the lines that hadn’t been there at twenty-one. “You were going to be a barrister. Like your dad. You were top of our class.”
“Plans change.”
“Mine didn’t.” He said it without arrogance, a simple statement of fact. “I’m a partner now. At Hartwell and Pryce.”
She knew the firm. Prestigious. His father’s firm. The path had been laid out for him since birth, smooth and straight. She’d been on a similar path once, the gravel neatly raked by her father. She’d veered off into the brambles.
“Congratulations,” she said, and meant it. The Evan she’d known had been ambitious, but kind. He’d wanted to change the world from the inside. She wondered if he still did.
“And you?” He gestured vaguely at her clothes, the heavy delivery bag slumped by her feet. “What… what do you do now?”
She saw the question in his eyes, the confusion. The Laila he’d known wore crisp blouses and talked about tort reform. This woman in a rain-spattered t-shirt was a stranger. A part of her wanted to lie, to construct a life that would make sense to him. Another part, the weary, honest part, couldn’t be bothered.
“I deliver food. For a Chinese restaurant in Soho.”
His carefully neutral expression faltered for a second. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a blink. He covered it with another sip of his drink. “Right. Well. That’s… honest work.”
“It pays the bills.”
“You live around here?”
“Above the bar.”
His eyes flicked toward Silas, who was now ostentatiously rearranging bottles, clearly listening. “With… him?”
“God, no. He’s my landlord. And a friend.” She felt a need to defend the simplicity of it. “It’s a good flat. Quiet.”
An awkward silence descended, filled only by the low hum of the cooler and the distant sound of traffic. The weight of those six years pressed down on the space between them, filled with all the things they hadn’t shared: her flight from Cardiff, the months of terrified looking over her shoulder, the slow, cautious rebuilding of a life in London. His own journey—the promotions, the weddings of mutual friends she hadn’t been invited to, the slow solidification of the man he was meant to become.
“Do you ever go back?” he asked finally. “To Cardiff?”
“No.”
“Your parents…”
“Are fine. We talk.”
“I saw your dad last year. At a charity function. He asked if I’d heard from you.”
Her throat tightened. “What did you say?”
“I said no.” Evan swirled the ice in his glass. “He looked… sad, I think. He didn’t talk about your brother, but everyone knows he’s in Dubai. And you’re here.” He looked around the dim bar, at the old maps on the walls. “He just said he missed your debates.”
The memory was a sharp, sudden pain. Sunday dinners, arguing case law over roast chicken. Her father’s proud, challenging smile. She took a long swallow of whisky, letting the peat smoke burn away the feeling.
“Why, Laila?” The question was quiet, stripped of judgement, full of a simple, profound confusion. “You were the brightest of all of us. You could have had anything. Why… this?”
*Because ‘anything’ felt like a cage.* She couldn’t say that. The Evan sitting before her, in his bespoke suit, embodied that ‘anything.’ He wore it comfortably.
“I needed to be somewhere else,” she said, her voice low . “Someone else.”
“And are you?” He leaned forward slightly , his brown eyes intent. “Happy, I mean?”
It was the most direct question anyone had asked her in years. People in her new life—Silas, Eva, Yu-Fei—they didn’t ask. They saw. They knew. Happiness wasn’t a relevant metric for the life she led. Satisfaction, perhaps. Purpose, in a twisted way. Safety, most of all.
“I’m content,” she said, and it was mostly true.
He searched her face, looking for the girl he’d known. Rory saw the moment he gave up. His shoulders relaxed, and a soft, resigned sadness settled in his eyes. He nodded slowly . “I’m glad. Really.”
They lapsed into another silence , but this one was softer, the tension bled out. The past was a country they could no longer visit together. They were both exiles, just from different lands.
His phone buzzed on the bar. He glanced at it. “My client. He’s downstairs.”
“You should go.”
“I should.” He didn’t move. He finished his drink and stood, pulling on his coat. He looked down at her, and for a second, the old Evan was there in his smile—the one who’d borrowed her notes and laughed at her terrible jokes. “It was really good to see you, Laila.”
“You too, Evan.”
He hesitated, then reached out and squeezed her shoulder. The touch was brief, warm, final. “Take care of yourself.”
“You too.”
He turned and walked out, the bell jangling behind him. The cold air rushed in and then was gone . Rory stared at the door, the ghost of his hand still warm on her jacket.
Silas moved down the bar and refilled her glass without being asked . He didn’t look at her.
“Old friend?” he asked, his voice neutral .
“Something like that.”
“He looked like he’d seen a ghost.”
Rory picked up her fresh whisky, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Maybe he did.”