Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQAN7GV191M6JJTPBXNB6V

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of late-night patrons, the kind of place where the air smelled of aged whiskey and the faint metallic tang of old coins left too long in a pocket. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow through the rain-streaked windows, painting the bar in shifting shades of jade. Rory leaned against the polished mahogany, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty glass of gin. The ice had long since melted, diluting the sharpness of the juniper, but she didn’t mind. It was the kind of night where the weight of the past pressed down just enough to make the present feel like a borrowed coat—something she could shrug off if she wanted to. She hadn’t expected to see him. Evan slid onto the stool beside her with the quiet confidence of a man who had never once doubted his place in the world. His cologne—something expensive, sandalwood and bergamot—cut through the bar’s stale warmth, and for a second, Rory was seventeen again, standing in the school courtyard with her heart hammering against her ribs. He hadn’t changed, not really. The same sharp jawline, the same dark eyes that had once looked at her like she was the only thing worth seeing. But there was something different in the set of his shoulders, a hardness that hadn’t been there before. “Rory,” he said, and his voice was the same too—smooth, deliberate, the kind of voice that had once whispered promises into her hair. “I heard you were in London.” She didn’t look at him. “News travels.” A beat of silence. The bartender, a wiry man with a scar through his eyebrow, glanced their way before busying himself with a rag and a row of glasses. Evan ordered a whiskey, neat, and when it arrived, he swirled the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. “You look good,” he said at last. Rory finally turned her head. Her bright blue eyes were cool, assessing. “Do I?” Evan exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so hollow. “That’s not what I meant.” “No?” She picked up her glass, took a sip. The gin was watery now, but the bite of it still grounded her. “What did you mean, then?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied her—the way her black hair fell in a sleek curtain to her shoulders, the way her fingers, long and precise, tapped against the glass. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist caught the light as she moved, a pale sliver against her skin. He reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed his thumb over it. Rory flinched. Evan pulled his hand back like he’d been burned. “Sorry.” She set her glass down. “You always were.” The words hung between them, heavy with everything they weren’t saying. The bartender cleared his throat, but neither of them looked away. Evan’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t come here to fight.” “Then why did you come?” “Because I saw you.” He said it like it was obvious, like the answer should have been written in the way her pulse jumped at the base of her throat. “Because I’ve been looking for you for a long time.” Rory laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That’s rich. You had my number. My address. Hell, you knew where my parents lived. If you’d wanted to find me, you could have.” “I know.” His voice was low, rough. “I fucked up, Rory. I know that.” She wanted to tell him it wasn’t that simple. That some things couldn’t be undone with an apology, no matter how sincere. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in the memory of his hands on her wrists, the way his voice had gone soft right before it turned cruel. She swallowed. “What do you want from me, Evan?” He opened his mouth, then closed it. The whiskey glass in his hand was nearly empty. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… I missed you.” Rory looked away, her gaze landing on the far wall where a collection of old maps and black-and-white photographs were pinned haphazardly. One of them caught her eye—a grainy shot of a younger Silas, his auburn hair still free of grey, standing in front of a building she didn’t recognize. His arm was slung around the shoulders of another man, both of them grinning like they’d just gotten away with something. “You missed me,” she repeated, her voice flat. “Funny. I didn’t miss you at all.” Evan’s fingers tightened around his glass. “That’s not fair.” “No?” She turned back to him, her expression unreadable. “Tell me, Evan—when you were breaking my ribs, did you ever stop to think about whether it was fair?” The air between them turned brittle. Evan’s face paled, then flushed, a slow creep of red rising from his collar. “I was a kid,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know what I was doing.” “You were twenty-two.” Rory’s voice was steady, but her hands were shaking. She curled them into fists, pressing them into her thighs. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” Evan didn’t have an answer for that. He looked down at his glass, at the way his reflection wavered in the amber liquid. “I’m not that person anymore,” he said at last. “Aren’t you?” Rory tilted her head, studying him. “Because from where I’m sitting, you look exactly the same.” He flinched like she’d struck him. “That’s not true.” “No?” She leaned in, just a little, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the way his pupils dilated at her proximity. “Then prove it.” Evan’s breath hitched. For a second, she thought he might reach for her again. But then the moment passed, and he sat back, his expression shuttering. “How?” Rory exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. She picked up her glass, drained the last of the gin. “Leave,” she said simply. “Walk out that door and don’t come back.” Evan stared at her. “You can’t be serious.” “I am.” She set the glass down with a sharp *clink*. “That’s how you prove it.” He opened his mouth, then closed it. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Finally, he stood, his stool scraping against the floor. “You’re really going to make me do this?” Rory didn’t answer. She just looked at him, her bright blue eyes unblinking. Evan’s hands curled into fists at his sides. For a second, she thought he might argue, might try to convince her that he’d changed, that he deserved another chance. But then he turned on his heel and walked away, his footsteps echoing against the hardwood floor. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet *click*. Rory didn’t watch him go. She sat there for a long moment, her heart pounding, her hands still trembling. Then she signaled the bartender for another drink. Silas found her like that twenty minutes later, nursing a fresh gin and tonic, her gaze fixed on the ice cubes as they slowly melted. He slid onto the stool Evan had vacated, his hazel eyes sharp as he took her in. “You alright?” Rory didn’t look up. “Peachy.” Silas grunted. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his silver signet ring, and turned it absently between his fingers. “Want to talk about it?” She finally met his gaze. “Not particularly.” He nodded, like he’d expected that answer. “Fair enough.” He gestured to the bartender for a whiskey, then turned back to her. “You know, I was married once.” Rory blinked. “What?” “Long time ago.” Silas took a sip of his drink, his expression distant. “She left me after Prague. Said she couldn’t handle the lies, the half-truths. Said I was more married to the job than I was to her.” He shrugged. “She wasn’t wrong.” Rory studied him—the lines around his eyes, the grey streaking his auburn beard, the way his left leg always carried just a hint of a limp. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because,” Silas said, “sometimes the past comes back when you least expect it. And sometimes, the only thing you can do is let it walk away.” Rory was quiet for a long moment. Then she picked up her glass and clinked it against his. “To the past,” she said. Silas smiled, just a little. “To the past.” They drank in silence, the weight of the night settling around them like a shroud. Outside, the rain continued to fall, blurring the neon glow of the Raven’s Nest into something soft, something almost beautiful. Rory exhaled, her breath steady for the first time in hours. She was okay. She would be.