Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ30QP69V3V7005DVE5CHM

The green neon raven flickered like a dying thought as Rory pushed through the door of *The Raven’s Nest*, the evening air clinging to her coat. Inside, the hum of low conversation wrapped around the scent of aged whiskey and something faintly metallic—maybe the old pipes, maybe the ghosts of past deals struck in the back room. She shook the rain from her sleeves and slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, where the light was weakest. Silas didn’t look up from polishing a glass. “Took you long enough.” “Traffic on Charing Cross was a nightmare.” She tapped her fingers against the counter, restless. “Also, I got held up at the restaurant. Yu-Fei’s nephew decided today was the day to ‘learn the ropes,’ which apparently means burning half the orders.” A ghost of a smile touched Silas’ lips. “Sounds like you needed this more than I did.” He set a tumbler in front of her, amber liquid catching the dim light. No ice. No fuss. Rory wrapped her hand around the glass but didn’t drink. Her gaze flicked to the mirrors behind the bottles, where the reflections of the bar’s patrons blurred into indistinct shapes. Then she froze. A man sat three stools down, hunched over a half-empty pint, his back to her. But she knew that posture—the way his shoulders angled just so, like he was bracing for a blow. The years had filled him out, softened the sharp edges of his jaw, but the set of his neck was unmistakable. Evan. Her breath hitched. The glass in her hand suddenly felt too heavy. Silas followed her stare, his expression unreadable. “Problem?” She swallowed. “No.” A lie. A stupid, obvious one. Evan turned then, as if sensing the weight of her gaze. His eyes—still that unsettling pale green—widened. The pint glass slipped from his fingers, hit the bar with a dull *thud*, beer foaming over the rim. “Rory?” The name sounded wrong in his mouth. Too familiar. Too much like the past. She didn’t answer. Just stared, cataloguing the changes: the new scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the way his hair had thinned at the temples, the wedding ring glinting under the bar lights. Her stomach twisted. He wiped his hand on his jeans—nervous habit, that—and stood. The stool scraped against the floor. “Jesus. I didn’t think—” His voice cracked. Cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you were in London.” “Neither did I.” The words came out colder than she intended. Silas’ hand landed on the bar between them, a silent anchor. His knuckles were scarred, his signet ring catching the light. “You two know each other?” Evan’s laugh was bitter. “Yeah. You could say that.” Rory finally took a sip of her drink. The whiskey burned all the way down, steadying her. “Small world, Silas.” “Not that small.” His voice was low, measured. He didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off Evan. “You here for a reason, mate?” Evan’s jaw tightened. “Just passing through. Didn’t mean to—” He cut himself off, rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Rory, I—” “Don’t.” She set the glass down harder than necessary. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.” He flinched. Actually flinched. Like she’d struck him. The bar seemed to shrink around them, the murmur of other conversations fading into white noise. Rory could feel the weight of Silas’ gaze, his silent question: *You want me to step in?* But she didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Evan exhaled sharply through his nose. “You look good.” “Don’t.” “What?” “Don’t do that. Don’t act like we’re just… old friends catching up.” Her fingers curled into her palms. “You don’t get to do that.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. The muscle in his cheek twitched. “I know.” Silence. Thick and suffocating. Then, quiet: “I heard about your dad.” Rory’s spine locked. “Did you.” “Yeah.” He shifted, uncomfortable. “Brendan Carter, right? Big shot barrister. Read about the heart attack in the *Western Mail*.” She didn’t answer. Just stared at the rings of condensation her glass left on the bar. Evan’s voice dropped. “I’m sorry.” “Are you.” It wasn’t a question. He looked away first, his gaze landing on the old maps pinned to the wall behind the bar. “I thought about calling. After I heard.” “But you didn’t.” “No.” “Why not?” His fingers drummed against the bar. Once. Twice. “Because I knew you’d hang up.” She almost laughed. Almost. “You’re right. I would’ve.” Another beat of silence. Then, softer: “How’s your mum?” Rory’s nails bit into her skin. “She’s fine.” “Still teaching?” “Yes.” “And you?” His eyes flicked to her, searching. “You’re still in Cardiff, then? Law school?” A sharp, humourless laugh escaped her. “No.” “No?” “I dropped out.” She swirled her drink, watching the liquid cling to the sides. “Moved to London a couple years back.” Evan’s brows knitted. “But you—you loved that stuff. Debate club, mock trials, all of it. You were *good*.” “People change.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. Guess they do.” Silas finally moved, reaching for a rag to wipe down the counter between them. The motion was deliberate, a reminder of his presence. “You about done here, mate?” Evan didn’t take his eyes off Rory. “I just—” He stopped. Shook his head. “Never mind.” “No, go on.” Her voice was steel. “What?” He exhaled, long and slow. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.” The words hung there, flat and insufficient. Rory studied him—the lines around his eyes, the way his knuckles whitened around his pint glass. He looked tired. Older than his years. Like life had taken its pound of flesh and then some. “You think that fixes it?” she said quietly. “An apology, after all this time?” “I know it doesn’t.” His voice was rough. “But I had to say it.” She wanted to scream. Wanted to throw her drink in his face. Wanted to ask him *why*—why he’d ever thought he had the right to touch her, to control her, to make her feel small. Why he’d made her spend years jumping at shadows, flinching at raised voices. But the words stuck in her throat. Silas’ voice cut through the tension, low and final. “Time to go, mate.” Evan didn’t argue. Just nodded, once. He pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, tossed it onto the bar. “Take care, Rory.” She didn’t watch him leave. The door swung shut behind him, the neon raven flickering again, casting long shadows across the floor. Rory stared at her hands. They were steady. No shaking. No tears. Silas slid a fresh drink in front of her. “You alright?” She picked up the glass. “Peachy.” He didn’t push. Just nodded, his hazel eyes knowing. “He won’t be back.” Rory took a slow sip, the whiskey warming her chest. “Good.” Outside, the rain started up again, a steady drum against the windows. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared. Life moving on. She turned her glass in slow circles, watching the light catch the amber. “You ever run into someone from your old life? Someone you thought you’d never see again?” Silas’ fingers stilled on the rag. His signet ring glinted. “Once or twice.” “What’d you do?” He met her gaze, steady. “Same thing you just did.” Rory exhaled, long and slow. “Yeah.” “Some ghosts,” Silas said quietly, “aren’t worth talking to.” She lifted her glass in a silent toast. And drank.