Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPXRYJ729BXRJ9D0Q2QAWN

The green neon raven flickered like a dying thought as Rory pushed through the door of the Nest, the evening’s chill clinging to her coat. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and the low hum of conversation—some hushed, some too loud, all of it blending into the kind of ambient noise that made a person feel both invisible and exposed. She exhaled, watching her breath dissipate in the dim light, and made her way toward the bar. Silas was polishing a glass with the methodical precision of a man who had spent decades perfecting the art of looking busy while observing everything. His hazel eyes flicked up as she approached, the corners crinkling just slightly. “Late shift at the Empress?” Rory slid onto a stool, the wood worn smooth by years of restless patrons. “Yu-Fei’s got a new chef. Thinks I’m his personal courier service.” She tugged off her gloves, flexing her fingers. The crescent scar on her left wrist caught the light for a second before she tucked her hand under the bar’s edge. “I’d kill for something warm.” Silas set down the glass and reached for a bottle of Irish whiskey—her father’s favorite, though she’d never told him that. The amber liquid splashed into a tumbler, and he pushed it toward her without a word. Rory wrapped her fingers around it, letting the heat seep into her skin. The bar was quiet for a Thursday, the usual crowd of off-duty journalists and ex-spooks thinning out as the hour grew late. Rory took a slow sip, the whiskey burning a path down her throat, grounding her. She was about to ask Silas if he’d heard from Eva when the door opened again, letting in a gust of wind and the sharp, unmistakable scent of rain-soaked wool. Rory didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. The weight of the silence that followed was enough. Silas’s fingers stilled on the glass he’d been drying. His gaze shifted past her, his expression unreadable, but his grip tightened just slightly on the cloth. Rory took another sip, the whiskey suddenly bitter on her tongue. Footsteps paused behind her. Hesitant. Then, softer, as if the person had decided to retreat. She turned. Evan stood just inside the door, his dark hair damp from the rain, his overcoat dripping onto the floorboards. He looked older—of course he did. Five years had a way of etching lines into a person’s face, especially when those years were spent carrying the kind of weight that didn’t just disappear. His jaw was sharper now, his shoulders broader, but his eyes were the same: that unsettling, too-perceptive green that had once made her feel like he could see straight through her. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Evan exhaled, a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so hollow. “Rory.” Her name on his lips sent a jolt through her, sharp and unwanted. She set the glass down carefully, the whiskey sloshing just shy of the rim. “Evan.” Silas’s gaze flicked between them, his voice low. “You two know each other?” Evan’s mouth quirked, though there was no humor in it. “You could say that.” Rory’s fingers curled around the glass again, her knuckles white. She could feel Silas’s attention on her, heavy with questions he wouldn’t ask. Not here. Not now. But the air between them had shifted, the easy rhythm of their usual exchanges replaced by something taut, something watchful. Evan took a step forward, then another, until he was close enough that she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his left hand—his dominant hand—twitched at his side before he forced it still. “I didn’t know you were in London.” “Funny,” she said, her voice steady despite the way her pulse hammered in her throat. “I didn’t know you were either.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “I moved back. Six months ago.” Six months. She had been here for three years. The math was simple, the implications less so. He could have run into her at any point. The tube. A café. The bloody grocery store. But he hadn’t. Until now. Silas cleared his throat, the sound deliberate. “You want a drink, or are you just here to make my regulars uncomfortable?” Evan’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Rory. “Whiskey. Neat.” Silas poured, his movements precise, but his attention remained on Rory. She could feel the weight of his concern like a physical pressure, but she didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not when Evan was standing there, close enough that she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. Close enough that she could see the faint scar above his eyebrow—the one he’d gotten playing rugby in uni, the one she’d teased him about for years. He took the glass Silas offered, his fingers brushing the bar’s surface. “Thanks.” Silas nodded, then stepped back, giving them the illusion of privacy. Rory knew better. Silas missed nothing. But for now, he was letting her handle this. Evan took a sip, his throat working as he swallowed. “You look good, Rory.” She almost laughed. Almost. But the sound died before it could escape, because what was there to say to that? *You look like hell*? *You look like the kind of man who’s spent too many nights staring at the ceiling, wondering*? She settled for, “You look like you’ve been sleeping in your clothes.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Perceptive as ever.” She shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have engaged. But the words were out now, hanging between them like the last stubborn leaves of autumn, clinging to branches long after they should have fallen. Evan set his glass down. “I was in Cardiff last month. Saw your dad.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her own glass. “How is he?” “Same. Still telling anyone who’ll listen about the time he won that case in ’98.” Evan’s voice was careful, measured. “He misses you.” She looked away, her gaze landing on the wall behind the bar—a black-and-white photo of some long-forgotten street in Prague, the cobblestones slick with rain. “I miss him too.” “Then why haven’t you gone back?” The question was quiet. Too quiet. She could hear the unspoken layers beneath it: *Why haven’t you answered his calls?* *Why did you leave without telling anyone?* *Why did you let me become the villain in a story you never bothered to correct?* Rory took a slow breath, the whiskey’s warmth doing little to ease the cold knot in her chest. “You know why.” Evan’s jaw tightened. “I know what you *think* happened. That’s not the same.” She turned back to him, her voice low. “You put your hands on me, Evan. More than once. Or did you forget that part?” His face paled, just slightly, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I remember every second of it. And I remember the night you left, when you wouldn’t even look at me. When you let me believe—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.” “It *does* matter.” The words were out before she could stop them, sharp and raw. “You think I wanted to leave like that? You think I wanted to disappear and never look back? But you didn’t give me a choice.” Evan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his voice rough. “I *begged* you to talk to me, Rory. For weeks. And then you were just—gone. No note. No call. Nothing. Just a half-packed suitcase and a flat that smelled like your perfume.” The memory of it hit her like a physical blow: the way the morning light had slanted through the curtains that last day, the way her hands had shaken as she’d thrown clothes into a bag, the way she’d stood in the doorway for one endless second, willing herself to turn around. To face him. To tell him— But she hadn’t. And she couldn’t now. Rory stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the floor. “I should go.” Evan reached out, his fingers brushing her arm before she could pull away. The contact burned. “Rory, wait—” “Don’t.” She jerked free, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. “Don’t touch me. Don’t *follow* me. Just—” She swallowed hard, her throat tight. “Leave me alone, Evan.” For a second, she thought he might argue. Might grab her wrist, might say something—anything—that would make this harder than it already was. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his face a mask of something she couldn’t—wouldn’t—name, and let her walk away. The cold hit her like a slap as she pushed out into the night, the neon raven’s glow bleeding across the wet pavement. She didn’t look back. Didn’t let herself. But as she turned the corner, her breath coming too fast, her fingers numb around the strap of her bag, she heard the door open again. Heard footsteps—hesitant, then determined—following her into the dark. “Rory.” She stopped, her back to him. “What?” “I’m not the same person I was then.” She closed her eyes, the rain beginning to fall in earnest, mixing with the tears she refused to let spill. “Neither am I.” And that, more than anything, was the problem.