Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQERPXSCZX0B3HFDFWXQET

The green neon raven flickered like a dying thought as Rory pushed through the door of the Nest, the familiar scent of aged whiskey and polished wood wrapping around her. The bar was quiet tonight—just a handful of regulars hunched over their drinks, the low hum of conversation barely rising above the crackle of the vinyl spinning on the old turntable. She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. This was the one place in London that still felt like hers. Silas looked up from behind the bar, his hazel eyes sharp even in the dim light. He didn’t smile, but then, he never did. A nod was enough. “Late shift?” Rory slid onto a stool, her black hair catching the amber glow of the pendant lights. “Yu-Fei’s nephew decided to test how many dumplings one human can eat in an hour. I lost the bet.” Silas grunted, already reaching for the bottle of Japanese whisky she favored. The ice clinked as he dropped two cubes into her glass. “You let him win.” “Maybe.” She took the glass, the weight of it familiar in her palm. The first sip burned smooth down her throat, and for a moment, she let herself pretend the last five years hadn’t happened. Then the door opened again. A gust of cold October air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of rain and something else—something expensive, like sandalwood and bergamot. Rory didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She knew that cologne. Knew the way the air shifted when *he* walked into a room. Silas stiffened beside her, his fingers pausing mid-wipe on a glass. “Well,” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear, “this is a surprise.” Rory swirled her whisky, watching the amber liquid cling to the sides. She could feel Evan’s presence behind her like a physical weight, the way gravity pulls at old wounds. Three years. Three years since she’d last seen him, and here he was, stepping into *her* bar like he owned the place. “Rory.” His voice was the same—deep, measured, the kind of voice that had once made her stomach flip. She took another sip before turning, giving herself that extra second to school her face into something neutral. “Evan. What a coincidence.” He wasn’t supposed to look like this. In her memory, he was forever frozen at twenty-two, all sharp angles and arrogance, the kind of handsome that made girls forget their own names. But the man standing in the doorway was softer around the edges, his dark hair threaded with silver at the temples, his jawline less severe. He wore a tailored overcoat, the kind that cost more than her monthly rent, and his hands—those hands she’d once known so well—were tucked into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I didn’t know you came here,” he said. Rory arched a brow. “Funny. I didn’t know you *could* come here.” A flicker of something crossed his face—guilt, maybe, or just the ghost of an old argument. He stepped forward, hesitating like he was waiting for permission. Silas’s gaze darted between them, his expression unreadable, but Rory caught the way his fingers twitched toward the baseball bat beneath the counter. She gave a tiny shake of her head. *Not yet.* Evan slid onto the stool beside her, leaving a careful inch of space between them. “I’m in town for a conference. Thought I’d see if this place was still standing.” “It is.” Rory took another sip. “Some things don’t change.” Silas set a tumbler in front of Evan without a word, pouring two fingers of the same whisky Rory was drinking. Evan thanked him, but his eyes never left Rory. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the way it traced the line of her jaw, the scar on her wrist where his father’s dog had bitten her when they were kids. “You look good,” he said finally. She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Liar.” He flinched. Just a little. But she saw it. Rory turned to face him fully, letting him see the dark circles under her eyes, the way her collarbones pressed too close to the skin. “I look like someone who works double shifts and hasn’t slept through the night in years. But thanks for the thought.” Evan’s fingers tightened around his glass. “I deserved that.” “Yeah,” she said softly. “You did.” Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The kind of silence that only exists between people who used to know each other’s secrets. Rory could hear the tick of the old clock above the bar, the muffled laughter of the regulars in the corner, the way Evan’s breath hitched just slightly when he finally spoke again. “How’s your dad?” The question was so mundane it threw her. She blinked. “Still a barrister. Still thinks I wasted my potential.” “And your mum?” “Retired. Moved to Tenby. Sends me knitted scarves I never wear.” Evan almost smiled. Almost. “Sounds like Jennifer.” Rory studied him, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the glass. He’d always done that when he was nervous. “What about you? Still saving the world, one corporate merger at a time?” His jaw tightened. “Something like that.” She wanted to ask if he was happy. If the life he’d chosen—the one he’d *picked over her*—was everything he’d dreamed. But the words stuck in her throat, bitter as unripe fruit. Silas cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “You two catch up. I’ve got inventory.” Rory watched him limp toward the back room, his presence leaving a void. Silas had a sixth sense for when to disappear. She envied him for it. Evan swirled his whisky, the ice clinking like a metronome counting down. “I heard about your flat. The one above the bookshop.” Rory’s fingers went cold. “From who?” “Mutual friends.” “Eva wouldn’t tell you shit.” “No,” he admitted. “It was… someone else.” She didn’t ask who. Didn’t want to know. The flat above the bookshop was where they’d lived together, back when she still believed in happy endings. Back before his hands became weapons and his words became blades. “It’s gone,” she said flatly. “Burned down last winter. Electrical fire.” Evan’s breath hitched. “Christ, Rory. Were you—?” “I wasn’t there.” She cut him off before he could finish. “I was already gone by then.” Gone. Like she should’ve been years earlier. He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking every one of his thirty years. “I’m glad.” She wanted to scream. Wanted to throw her glass at the wall and watch it shatter, just to see if he’d flinch. But she didn’t. Because Rory Carter didn’t scream anymore. She just… endured. “Why are you here, Evan?” He met her gaze, and for the first time, she saw the cracks in his armor. The way his eyes flickered with something raw. “I needed to see you.” “Bullshit.” The word was out before she could stop it. “You could’ve seen me anytime in the last three years. You knew where I worked. Knew where I lived.” “I wasn’t sure you’d want that.” “You weren’t *wrong*,” she snapped. Evan leaned in, his voice dropping. “I’m sorry.” The words hung between them, heavy and inadequate. Rory stared at him, at the man who’d once been her everything, who’d then become her nightmare, and now sat in front of her like a stranger wearing a familiar face. “Are you?” she whispered. He didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t. Rory drained her glass and stood, the stool scraping against the wooden floor. “It was good seeing you, Evan.” He reached for her wrist—*her wrist*, the one with the scar—and she jerked back like he’d burned her. His hand froze in the air between them, trembling just slightly. “I miss you,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. She wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry. Wanted to slap the self-pity out of his voice. But all she did was shake her head and step back. “No,” she said. “You miss the idea of me. The girl who used to look at you like you hung the moon. But she’s gone. And you killed her.” Then she turned and walked out, the green neon raven blinking overhead like a warning. The cold air hit her lungs, sharp and clean, and she sucked it in like a lifeline. Behind her, the door to the Nest swung shut with a quiet, final click.