Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPTFZWW01CR9736EJG0QFR

The green neon raven flickered like a dying thought as Rory pushed through the door of *The Raven’s Nest*, the hinge groaning in protest. The bar smelled of aged whiskey and old secrets—polished wood, damp wool, the faint metallic tang of the rain that had just stopped outside. She shook the water from her jacket, the black fabric clinging to her shoulders, and scanned the room. Silas was behind the bar, wiping a glass with slow, deliberate strokes, his signet ring catching the low light. He didn’t look up, but she knew he’d clocked her the second she walked in. She slid onto a stool, the wood smooth beneath her palms, worn down by decades of restless hands. “You’re open late.” Silas set the glass down. “You’re out late.” Rory exhaled through her nose, a half-laugh. “Delivery to Whitechapel. Some banker with a craving for dumplings at midnight.” She reached for the bowl of peanuts between them, cracked one between her fingers. The salt stung the small scar on her wrist, a ghost of childhood clumsiness. Silas poured her a finger of whiskey without asking. “You look like hell.” “Thanks.” She took the glass, let the amber burn settle in her chest. The bar was quiet tonight—just a couple of regulars hunched over their drinks in the corner, the hum of their voices low and indistinct. The kind of night where the past could slip in unnoticed. Then the door opened again. A gust of wind sent a scatter of rain across the threshold, and for a second, Rory didn’t recognize the man who stepped inside. He was taller than she remembered, broader in the shoulders, his dark hair cropped short at the sides, the top left long enough to fall into his eyes. But it was the eyes that did it—sharp, assessing, the same deep brown she’d once known better than her own reflection. Evan. Her fingers tightened around the glass. He hesitated just inside the door, blinking against the dim light, and when his gaze landed on her, something flickered across his face—surprise, then something darker, something like guilt. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then he shut the door behind him and walked toward the bar, his steps measured, like he was giving her time to bolt. Rory didn’t. Silas glanced between them, his expression unreadable, but his fingers stilled on the glass he’d been drying. He knew. Of course he knew. Evan took the stool two down from hers, leaving the one between them empty, a no-man’s-land of cracked leather and old grudges. “Rory.” Her name in his voice was a punch to the sternum. She swallowed, forced her fingers to relax. “Evan. Fancy seeing you here.” He almost smiled. Almost. “Yeah. Wild coincidence.” Silas set a tumbler in front of him, neat, no ice. Evan didn’t thank him. His hands were different—thicker, knuckles scarred, the left one wrapped in a faded leather bracelet she didn’t recognize. No wedding ring. Not that it meant anything. “You’re in London,” she said, because someone had to say something. “For a few months.” He took a sip, winced slightly. “Work.” “What kind of work?” His lips quirked. “The kind that pays.” She should’ve left it at that. Should’ve slid off the stool, tossed a few quid on the bar, and walked out into the rain. But the whiskey was warm in her veins, and the old, reckless part of her—the part that had once thought she could outrun her own mistakes—whispered, *Ask him.* “You look different.” Evan set his glass down. “So do you.” She didn’t touch her face, but she felt it—the way her cheekbones were sharper now, the dark circles under her eyes that no amount of sleep ever quite erased. “Life’ll do that.” “Yeah.” He rubbed his thumb along the rim of his glass. “Heard you left Cardiff.” “People talk.” “Not as much as you’d think.” A pause. “Your dad still giving you hell about it?” Rory laughed, sharp and humorless. “Every Christmas card.” Evan’s mouth twisted. He knew Brendan Carter’s particular brand of disappointment—how it settled in your bones, heavy as a second skeleton. “You always did hate law.” “And you always did love pointing that out.” Silence. The kind that stretched too thin, too tight, like a wire about to snap. Silas cleared his throat. “You two need another round, or are we just torturing ourselves tonight?” Evan exhaled, rough. “Yeah. Another.” Rory didn’t object. The whiskey burned less the second time. “So,” Evan said, turning slightly toward her, “what’ve you been up to? Besides dodging your father’s calls.” She considered lying. Considered giving him the polished version—the one she told acquaintances, the one that didn’t include the flat above a bar, the delivery job, the way she still sometimes woke up gasping, her sheets tangled like ropes. But this was Evan. Or it had been, once. And the whiskey was doing its work. “I run deliveries for a Chinese place in Chinatown. Live above this bar.” She tilted her head toward Silas, who gave her the barest nod of acknowledgment. “It’s… fine.” Evan’s brow furrowed. “You’re working at a restaurant?” “Part-time.” “And the rest of the time?” She swirled her drink. “Surviving.” He looked like he wanted to argue, but he just nodded, jaw tight. “And Eva? She still in Cardiff?” Rory’s chest ached. “No. She’s in Manchester now. Teaching.” “She always wanted to do that.” “Yeah.” Rory traced the rim of her glass. “She’s good at it.” Another silence. Evan broke it. “I’m sorry, Rory.” The words hit her like a physical blow. She set her glass down carefully, because if she didn’t, she might throw it. “For what, exactly?” He didn’t flinch. “For everything.” She laughed, high and brittle. “That’s a hell of a lot to apologize for, Evan.” “I know.” “Do you?” Her voice was rising, but she couldn’t stop it. “Because last I checked, *sorry* doesn’t fix much.” Silas shifted, just slightly, his weight settling onto his bad leg. A warning. She ignored it. Evan’s hands were fists on the bar. “I was an arsehole. I know that. But I was—” He cut himself off, shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.” Rory stared at him. The boy she’d known—the one who’d made her laugh until her sides ached, who’d held her hair back when she was sick, who’d known her better than anyone—was gone. This man in front of her was a stranger with familiar eyes. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. Evan looked down at his hands. The scars. The bracelet. “Life,” he said. “Same as you.” She wanted to press. Wanted to demand answers, to peel back the years like layers of old wallpaper and see what was underneath. But the weight of it all—the exhaustion, the whiskey, the way her pulse still jumped when he looked at her—settled over her like a blanket. She finished her drink in one swallow. Silas was already reaching for her coat, holding it out. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, the wool damp from the rain. Evan didn’t try to stop her. The hinge groaned again as she pushed the door open, the neon raven flickering one last time before she stepped into the night. The rain had started again, a fine mist that beaded on her lashes. She didn’t look back. Behind her, she heard the clink of glass, the low murmur of Silas’ voice. Then Evan’s, too quiet to make out the words. She walked faster.