Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ5WEFDK4WWSTMPN8C7CJV

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying firefly, casting a sickly glow over the rain-slicked pavement. Rory ducked under the awning, shaking water from her jacket before pushing through the heavy oak door. The familiar scent of aged whiskey and polished wood wrapped around her, a comfort after the biting London wind. Inside, the bar hummed with low conversation and the occasional clink of glassware. Silas stood behind the counter, his signet ring glinting as he wiped down a tumbler. He glanced up, nodded once—no words needed—and slid a half-pint of bitter toward her usual spot at the far end. Rory peeled off her gloves, fingers numb from the cold, and reached for the drink. The first sip burned, sharp and bitter, grounding her. She exhaled, watching her breath fog in the dim light. Then she saw him. A man sat hunched over a whiskey at the corner table, his back to the room. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed restlessly against the glass— No. Couldn’t be. She turned away, heart hammering. But the bar wasn’t that big. And he chose that moment to shift, just slightly, enough for the light to catch the angle of his jaw, the old scar above his eyebrow— *Evan.* Rory’s grip tightened around her glass. The last time she’d seen him, his voice had been a snarl, his hands bruises on her wrists. She’d left him bleeding on the kitchen floor, a knife in his thigh, her bag packed in under five minutes. That was three years ago. Now here he was, in *her* bar, like he had every right to be here. She should leave. Walk out, lose herself in the rain, pretend she’d never— “Rory?” His voice was different. Rougher. Thicker. Like gravel underfoot. She didn’t turn. “You’re mistaken.” A chair scraped. Footsteps. The heat of him too close. “It’s you.” Not a question. A statement. Like he’d been searching for her. Like he’d *known*. She finally looked up. Evan wasn’t the same. The sharp edges of his face had softened, his once-lean frame filled out with muscle that looked earned, not the wiry tension of a man always spoiling for a fight. His dark hair was longer, streaks of silver at the temples. But his eyes—still that unnerving pale green, still too knowing—locked onto hers. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, voice low. He hesitated. “Same as you, I’d guess. Drinking.” Silas appeared at her elbow, a silent sentinel. His gaze flicked between them, assessing. “Everything alright?” Rory didn’t take her eyes off Evan. “Peachy.” Silas lingered a beat longer, then melted back into the shadows behind the bar. Smart man. Evan exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “You always did pick the strangest places to hide.” “Not hiding.” She took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch. “Just living.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar it made her stomach twist. “Yeah. Me too.” She waited. He’d come to her. He could damn well explain himself. Evan’s fingers twitched toward his glass, then stilled. “I got out. After… after that night. Left Cardiff. Went up north for a while. Construction. Manual labour.” A bitter smile. “Turns out I’m better with my hands than my mouth.” Rory’s scarred wrist ached. She flexed her fingers under the table. “Congratulations on the personal growth.” His jaw tightened. “I deserved that.” “And a hell of a lot more.” He didn’t argue. Just nodded, staring into his whiskey like it held answers. “I’m clean. Three years next month.” She blinked. “Clean?” “Off the coke. The booze. The—” He cut himself off, shook his head. “Everything.” Rory studied him. The Evan she knew had been all jagged edges and volatile tempers, fueled by whatever he could snort or swallow. This man held himself like someone who’d learned the weight of his own body. Like he wasn’t fighting himself anymore. It made her uneasy. “Why London?” she asked. He met her gaze. “Heard you were here.” Her breath hitched. “From who?” “Eva.” Rory’s fingers went cold. *Eva.* Her oldest friend. The one who’d smuggled her onto a train with fifty quid and a burner phone. The one who’d never once asked where the bruises came from. Betrayal sat heavy in her chest. “She told you.” Evan’s voice dropped. “Not at first. But I tracked her down last year. Begged her to tell me if you were—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Alive.” The bar’s ambient noise faded, replaced by the rush of blood in her ears. “You *begged*?” His hands clenched on the table. “I wasn’t in a good place, Rory. After you left, I—” A shuddering breath. “I nearly put a bullet in my skull. Eva’s the one who talked me down. Got me into rehab.” Rory’s vision blurred. She blinked hard, refusing to let anything slip. “So this is what, a thank-you tour? Apology circuit?” “No.” He leaned forward, voice raw. “I just needed to see you. To know you were okay.” She laughed, sharp and humourless. “I’ve been *okay* for years, Evan. Didn’t need your permission.” “I know.” His voice cracked. “God, I *know*. But I—fuck, Rory, I *miss* you.” The words hung between them, toxic and sweet. She wanted to slap him. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream that he’d lost the right to miss her the second he put his hands on her. Instead, she drained her pint and stood. Evan flinched like she’d struck him. “Wait—” “No.” Her chair scraped against the floor. “You don’t get to ambush me in my local and expect—what? Forgiveness? Absolution?” She shook her head. “I’m not that girl anymore.” His face twisted. “I *know* you’re not. That’s the point.” She turned away, but his next words stopped her cold. “I’m dying, Rory.” The bar tilted. She gripped the edge of the table. “What?” Evan didn’t look at her. Just stared at his hands, fingers trembling. “Liver’s shot. Cirrhosis. Docs give me six months, maybe a year if I’m lucky.” The air left her lungs. She sank back into her chair, the fight drained out of her. Evan finally met her eyes. “I didn’t come here to make you feel sorry for me. I just… I couldn’t go without seeing you one last time.” Silence. The kind that pressed down like a physical weight. Rory’s throat burned. “You should’ve stayed gone.” “I know.” She stood again, slower this time. “Goodbye, Evan.” He didn’t try to stop her. The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time she stepped outside. She leaned against the brick wall, breathing in the damp air, the sting of it grounding her. The door creaked open behind her. Silas stepped out, lighting a cigarette. He offered her one. She took it, hands steady. “You alright?” he asked, exhaling smoke. Rory watched the ember glow in the dark. “I will be.” Silas nodded, like that was answer enough. “He’s gone.” She didn’t ask how he knew. Some things didn’t need explaining. The neon sign buzzed overhead, casting their shadows long and thin on the pavement. Rory took a drag, the nicotine sharp in her lungs. Time didn’t heal all wounds. But it did change people. And sometimes, that was worse.