Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPGVT045EGZBWJN0E7EYGJ

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses, the kind of sound that settled into the bones like a second heartbeat. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow through the rain-streaked windows, painting the patrons in shades of jade and shadow. Rory leaned against the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty gin and tonic, the ice long melted into something watery and weak. She hadn’t meant to stay this long. Just a quick drink after her shift at the Golden Empress, a moment to shake off the chill of the London evening before heading upstairs to her flat. But the Nest had a way of holding onto people, like a spider’s silk—soft at first, then impossible to break. The door swung open, letting in a gust of damp air and the distant wail of a siren. Rory didn’t look up. She was too busy watching the way the condensation slid down her glass, leaving a trail like a slug’s path. Then the scent hit her—cedar and bergamot, something familiar beneath the cologne. Her stomach tightened. “Well,” a voice said, rough as gravel underfoot. “If it isn’t Malphora herself.” Rory’s head snapped up. The nickname sent a jolt through her, sharp and unwelcome. No one had called her that in years. Not since— Evan stood there, grinning like he’d just won a bet. His hair was shorter now, cropped close to his skull, and there was a new hardness to his jaw, a shadow of stubble that made him look older than she remembered. But his eyes were the same—pale, almost colorless, like winter ice. They locked onto hers with the same intensity she’d once mistaken for passion. “Evan,” she said, and her voice came out steadier than she felt. She set her glass down, the clink too loud in the sudden quiet of her own pulse. “I didn’t know you were back in London.” He slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the way his knee brushed against hers. She didn’t move away. Old habits. “Just got in this morning. Thought I’d stop by the old haunts, see what’s changed.” His gaze flicked over her, lingering on the crescent scar at her wrist before meeting her eyes again. “You haven’t.” Rory exhaled through her nose. “People change.” “Do they?” He flagged down Silas, who was wiping down the bar with slow, deliberate strokes. The older man’s hazel eyes flicked between them, assessing, before he nodded once and turned to pour Evan’s usual—whiskey, neat. Rory watched Silas move, the slight hitch in his step as he limped back toward them. She wondered if Evan noticed. If he remembered the way Silas had always been there, a silent sentinel in the background of their relationship, the one who’d slipped her his card the night she’d shown up at the Nest with a split lip and shaking hands. *Call me if you ever need out.* Evan took the whiskey, swirled it once, and knocked it back in a single swallow. “Still working at that shitty little restaurant?” “It’s not shitty,” Rory said, though she knew what he meant. The Golden Empress was a far cry from the corporate law firms she’d once dreamed of. “And it’s honest work.” Evan laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Honest. Right.” He signaled for another drink. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Malphora. Running off to London, playing delivery girl. What happened to the girl who was going to take the bar by storm?” Rory’s fingers curled into her palm, nails biting into the crescent scar. “She grew up.” Silas set the second whiskey in front of Evan, his signet ring glinting under the dim bar lights. He didn’t say anything, but his presence was a weight, a reminder. Rory forced herself to relax. She wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t. Evan leaned in, close enough that she could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You know, I always wondered what happened to you. One day you were there, the next—poof. Like a fucking magic trick.” His voice dropped, low and intimate. “I looked for you, you know. For months.” Rory’s throat tightened. She remembered the texts, the voicemails, the way he’d shown up at her parents’ house in Cardiff, sweet-talking her mother while her father stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw set. *She doesn’t want to see you, son.* Evan hadn’t taken no for an answer then. He wasn’t taking it now. “I needed space,” she said. “Space.” He scoffed. “That’s what you call it? You just—left. No note, no explanation. Just gone.” His hand shot out, gripping her wrist, his thumb pressing against the scar. “You owe me an explanation, Rory.” She didn’t pull away. Not yet. “I don’t owe you anything.” Evan’s grip tightened, just shy of pain. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Running away, hiding behind your little bike and your shitty flat. But you’re still the same girl underneath. The one who flinches when I raise my voice. The one who jumps when the door slams.” His lips curled. “The one who never could say no to me.” Rory’s breath hitched. She could feel Silas watching them, could feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the bar, though no one was looking. Not really. This was London. People minded their own business. But she knew Silas. He wouldn’t intervene unless she asked. And she wouldn’t ask. She met Evan’s gaze, held it. “I’m not that girl anymore.” For a second, something flickered in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or anger. Then he laughed, loud and sharp, and let go of her wrist. “Sure you’re not.” He knocked back the second whiskey and stood, tossing a twenty onto the bar. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.” Rory didn’t watch him leave. She kept her eyes on her glass, on the way the ice had finally melted into nothing. The door swung shut behind him, the bell above it chiming softly. Silas didn’t say anything at first. He just refilled her gin and tonic, the ice fresh this time, the slice of lime floating on top like a tiny, bitter sun. Then, quietly: “You alright?” Rory picked up the drink, took a sip. The gin burned. “I will be.” Silas nodded, once, and moved down the bar to serve someone else. Rory stayed where she was, listening to the hum of the Nest, the clink of glasses, the murmur of lives unfolding around her. She flexed her wrist, feeling the ghost of Evan’s grip, the old ache of the scar. She wasn’t that girl anymore. But the past had a way of catching up, no matter how fast you ran.