Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYTNDXX0XYSPD9SRM1XK89

The old clock above the bar ticked with a slow, deliberate cadence, each second a drop of amber into the pool of a quiet Tuesday evening. Rory swirled the last of her whisky, the ice cubes clinking like tired bells. The Raven’s Nest smelled of damp wool, spilled beer, and the ghost of a thousand cigarettes smoked before the ban. It was a scent she had come to associate with safety. Old maps, their continents faded and seas yellowed, covered the walls between stark black-and-white photographs of London in a forgotten era. Behind the polished oak bar, Silas Blackwood moved with the quiet economy of a man comfortable in his own skin. He wiped down a glass, the cloth moving in smooth, practiced circles. His gaze, a warm hazel, flickered towards Rory for a moment, a silent question. She gave a faint nod, and he turned back to his work, the rhythm of the bar undisturbed. Her shift had been long, the London drizzle relentless, but here, cocooned in the low light and the gentle murmur of the few other patrons, the city's chill began to recede. She traced the crescent scar on her wrist with her thumb, a mindless habit. Then the door opened, letting in a slice of wet Soho night and a man who did not belong. He was a slash of charcoal grey in a world of worn leather and wood. His suit was sharp, tailored in a way that spoke of money and ambition. His hair, once a shaggy mess, was now cut close and styled with precision. He paused for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, and Rory’s breath caught in her throat. The glass grew slick in her hand. It felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room, leaving only the frantic drumbeat in her ears. His eyes swept the bar and then they found hers. Recognition dawned, slow at first, then sharp. A flicker of something unreadable—surprise, maybe something else—crossed his features before settling into a mask of cool composure. Evan. He straightened his tie, a small, nervous gesture that was so familiar it made her stomach clench. Then he started towards her. Each step he took on the creaking floorboards was a step back in time. She was suddenly back in Cardiff, in a cramped university flat, the air thick with unspoken things. Silas looked up, his movements ceasing. He registered the man’s approach, registered the sudden tension in Rory’s shoulders, and his expression hardened just a fraction. He placed the clean glass down on the bar with a quiet, definitive click. Evan stopped at her table. He smelled of expensive cologne and rain. “Rory? Aurora Carter. I don’t believe it.” His voice was deeper than she remembered, smoother. The Welsh lilt she once found charming was gone, sanded away and replaced by a polished London accent. “Evan.” She kept her own voice flat, a stone skipping across a frozen lake. She did not stand. She did not invite him to sit. A smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. “What are the odds? Of all the gin joints in all the world. You look… well, you look the same.” “You don’t.” It was the truth. The boy she knew was buried deep beneath this man in the expensive suit. He gave a short laugh, pulling out the chair opposite her without asking. It scraped against the floor, a jarring sound in the quiet bar. He sat, placing his hands on the table. A heavy, silver watch gleamed on his wrist. "Life moves on. I'm with Abernathy & Finch now. Corporate law. Made partner last year. In town for a big merger." He said it all with an air of practiced ease, a recited list of accomplishments. He was waiting for her to be impressed. When she said nothing, just watched him, a sliver of impatience entered his eyes. "And you? Still in London? Eva mentioned you were somewhere around here." "I live upstairs." She gestured vaguely with her head. "Upstairs?" He glanced around the pub, a faint look of disdain touching his features. "Right. I remember. You were always one for these… atmospheric places." The word hung in the air, weighted with condescension. He saw an old, dusty pub. She saw a sanctuary. "I work nearby," she offered, the words feeling like a concession. "Delivery rider for the Golden Empress." Evan’s smile tightened. "A delivery rider. Right. Well, it's good to keep busy, I suppose. I always thought you'd follow your father's footsteps. You were top of the class in Pre-Law, remember? You had a brilliant mind." He spoke of her past self like a prize she had carelessly discarded. He looked at her, really looked at her then, and his gaze was an assessment. He was measuring the distance between the girl he knew and the woman in front of him. "I found it wasn't for me." "Or you let things get in the way. We were kids, Rory. We were a mess. I was a mess. I know that." His voice dropped, taking on a confidential tone that made the hairs on her arms stand up. It was the same tone he used right before the apologies began, the ones that always circled back to being her fault. "I'm not that person anymore. People change." "Yes, they do." Across the room, she saw Silas wipe the same spot on the bar again and again, his attention fixed. He wasn't looking at them, but she knew he was listening to every word. The knowledge was a small, solid anchor in the churning sea of her past. Evan leaned forward, his voice a low coax. "Cardiff feels like a lifetime ago. I regret a lot of things. The way it ended… it was my fault. I was under so much pressure from my father, from the course load. I didn't handle it well." He was rewriting history, painting it in shades of youthful folly and academic stress. He had neatly edited out the shouting that curdled the air, the slammed doors, the cold, deliberate silences that lasted for days. He had forgotten the way he would grip her wrist, just a little too tight. "We all have regrets," she said. The whisky was a bitter memory on her tongue. "I just want you to know that. That I'm sorry." He reached across the table, his hand moving to cover hers. She pulled her hand back before he could touch her, the movement quick and sharp. She tucked it into her lap, her fingers finding the familiar, raised line of the scar. His eyes followed the motion and for a moment, the polished facade cracked. A flicker of the old anger, the possessive frustration, flashed in his eyes before he masked it again. "Still jumpy," he murmured, a soft accusation. "Just careful." He leaned back in his chair, the veneer of contrition falling away to reveal something harder beneath. "Look, I get it. But you can't spend your life delivering takeaways from a Chinese restaurant because you're scared. That's not the woman I knew. The woman I knew was going to argue cases in front of the High Court. She was brilliant. What happened to her?" His words were meant to sound like a challenge, like an appeal to a better self he thought he owned. But all Rory heard was the same old refrain: a demand that she be the person he wanted, not the person she was. She picked up her glass and drained the last of the melted ice and whiskey. The cold liquid did nothing to numb the old, familiar ache. She placed the empty tumbler on the table with a soft thud. "She grew up." "Is that what this is? Hiding out in a dive bar, running from your potential?" The question was a blade, aimed for a place he thought was still wounded. He didn't know that the wound had scarred over, tough and resilient. "This isn't hiding, Evan." She met his gaze, her own clear and steady. The bright blue of her eyes held no fear, only a profound and weary finality. "This is my life. The one I chose. Not the one you or my father or anyone else planned for me." She pushed her chair back, the sound echoing the one he had made moments before. But where his had been an intrusion, hers was a declaration. "It was… something," she said, the words deliberately neutral, "seeing you again."