AI ---
The door to *The Raven’s Nest* swung open with a *clang * of brass hinges, and the sudden gust of cold air carried the scent of stale whiskey and something sharper—ozone, like the moment before a storm breaks. Rory Carter froze mid-step, her fingers tightening around the handle of the delivery bag she’d just dropped off at Golden Empress. The bag’s contents—two cartons of *char siu * pork—thudded against her ribs, a silent reminder of the life she’d built here, one meal at a time.
Then she saw him .
Silas Blackwood stood at the bar, his back to her, one hand braced against the polished mahogany. The dim light from the neon sign outside spilled through the grimy windows, casting his silhouette in jagged gold. He wasn’t just older—he was *carved * by time. The auburn in his hair had bled into silver, his beard now a meticulous, salt-and-pepper frame around a face that looked like it had been weathered by something worse than years. His left leg gave a slight hitch as he turned, just enough to reveal the limp she’d forgotten about.
“Evening, Rory.”
His voice was the same—low, measured , the kind that could carry a room without raising its pitch. But the way he said it, like she was a half-forgotten debt, made her stomach twist.
She swallowed. “Silas.”
A beat. The air between them thickened, charged with the kind of silence that only comes when two people have spent years pretending not to notice the weight of what they’ve left unsaid.
He didn’t move toward her. Didn’t invite her closer. Just stood there, his signet ring catching the light as he lifted a glass of something amber and dark. “You look well.”
She should’ve laughed. Should’ve said something sharp, something that would make him flinch. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she let her gaze drift over him —the way his shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, the faint scar tissue along his jawline, the way his fingers curled around the glass like he was holding onto something fragile.
“You’re still here,” she said finally .
“So are you .”
The words hung between them, brittle as old paper. She exhaled through her nose, a sound she didn’t even realise she was making . “I didn’t know you were back.”
“Retired.” He took a slow sip . “Just passing through.”
“London’s not exactly passing through.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile. “No. It’s not .”
A silence settled, heavier this time. Rory’s fingers twitched toward the scar on her wrist—the one from the time she’d burned herself trying to save a kitten from a fire escape. She flexed them, nails digging into her palm. “You look like you ’ve been through a war.”
Silas’s eyes flicked to her hand, then back to her face. “Something like that.”
She should’ve walked away. Should’ve told him she had a delivery to finish, that she didn’t have time for this, for *him *. But the way he stood there, so still, so *present *, made her feet rooted to the spot.
“You always were good at disappearing,” he said.
“And you were always good at not letting go.”
His gaze darkened. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“Isn’t it?” She stepped closer, just enough to break the distance between them. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, close enough to smell the faintest hint of pipe tobacco on his breath. “You left me, Silas. Just like that.”
He didn’t deny it. Just raised his glass. “Drink?”
She hesitated. Then, because she was an idiot who’d spent too many nights alone with only her own company for company, she said, “Why not .”
He slid a stool toward her, the wood groaning under her weight as she sat. The bar between them felt like a chasm now, but the space was intimate, the kind that only comes when two people have spent years knowing each other’s rhythms, their silences, the way one could finish the other’s sentences without ever saying a word.
“You look like hell,” she said.
Silas didn’t flinch. “And you look like you ’ve been running.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the words died on her lips. Because he was right. She had been running. From Evan, from Cardiff, from the life she’d almost chosen, from the woman she’d been before she’d learned how to harden her edges.
“You always did have a way with words,” she said instead .
His laugh was low, rough. “And you always did have a way with *not * saying them.”
The bartender—a gaunt man with a face like a carved walnut—appeared beside them, sliding a glass of something dark and smoky in front of Rory . “On the house,” he muttered, already turning away .
Rory took a sip. The liquor burned, but it was good—something expensive, something she couldn’t afford. She set the glass down. “What’s this?”
“A reminder of better days.”
She looked at him . Really looked. The lines around his eyes were deeper now, his skin thinner, like paper stretched too tight over bone. “You’re not the same man who walked out of my life.”
“No.” He swirled his drink. “I’m not .”
“Good.” She said it without thinking, without meaning to. But the way his eyebrows lifted, just slightly , told her she’d hit something. “I mean—” She cut herself off. “You’re not the same *kind * of man.”
Silas’s gaze flicked to her, sharp as a blade. “And what kind of man are you , Rory?”
The question hung between them, heavy as the silence . She could lie. She could tell him she was fine, that she’d built a life, that she didn’t need him . But the truth was, she was tired. Tired of pretending, tired of the way her hands shook when she thought about the future, tired of the way she still woke up in the middle of the night, her skin prickling with the memory of Evan’s voice, low and threatening.
“I’m the kind of man who doesn’t leave,” she said.
Silas’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re not a man.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not .”
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on her mouth, her hands, the way her fingers tapped restlessly against the bar. Then, slowly, he set his glass down. “You should’ve come to me.”
“And what would you have done?” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “Sent me a postcard? Told me to ‘pull myself together’?”
“No.” His voice was quiet, dangerous. “I would’ve helped you .”
She wanted to believe him . God, she wanted to. But the years between them were a chasm, and no amount of wishing could bridge it. “You left me, Silas. You left *everyone *.”
His jaw tightened. “I had my reasons.”
“And I had mine.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the bar. “I didn’t want to be like my mother. I didn’t want to be like *you *.”
Silas’s breath hitched. For a second, she thought he was going to reach for her. But then he just looked away, his fingers curling into fists on the bar. “You think I wanted this?”
“What?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely at the bar, at the city outside the window, at the life he’d built here, one careful step at a time. “I thought I could walk away. Thought I could just… stop.”
Rory’s chest ached. She knew what that felt like . The way your body remembers the shape of something even when your mind has tried to forget it. “You couldn’t.”
“No.” His voice was rough. “I couldn’t.”
The bartender reappeared, sliding a plate of olives toward Silas. “You’re back for good?”
Silas didn’t look at him . “No.”
“Then why the hell are you here?”
Silas met Rory’s eyes. “Because some debts don’t go away.”
She should’ve walked away then. Should’ve told him she had a life, that she didn’t need this, didn’t need *him *. But the way he looked at her, like she was the only thing in the room that mattered, made her stay.
“What do you want, Rory?” he asked.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then, because she couldn’t lie to him anymore, she said, “I want to know why.”
“Why what?”
“Why you left.” She said it softly , but the words carried, sharp and clear. “Why you just… walked away.”
Silas’s fingers tightened around his glass. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, quietly, he said, “Because I was afraid.”
Rory’s breath caught. “Afraid of what?”
“Of losing you .” His voice was barely a whisper . “Of losing *everything *.”
She wanted to reach for him . Wanted to pull him close and never let go. But the years between them were a chasm, and no amount of wishing could bridge it.
“You lost me anyway,” she said.
Silas’s gaze darkened. “No. I didn’t.”
She wanted to believe him . God, she wanted to. But the truth was, she was tired. Tired of pretending, tired of the way her hands shook when she thought about the future, tired of the way she still woke up in the middle of the night, her skin prickling with the memory of Evan’s voice, low and threatening.
“You should’ve come back,” she said.
Silas’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I will.”
She didn’t know if he meant it. Didn’t know if she believed him . But for the first time in years, she didn’t feel so alone.
The bartender cleared his throat. “You two done here, or should I start charging?”
Silas’s gaze flicked to him , then back to Rory. “No. We’re not done.”
She should’ve walked away. Should’ve told him she had a life, that she didn’t need this, didn’t need *him *. But the way he looked at her, like she was the only thing in the room that mattered, made her stay.
“What now?” she asked.
Silas took a slow breath. Then, quietly, he said, “Now we finish what we started.”
Rory’s heart pounded. She didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t know what to expect. But for the first time in years, she didn’t feel so alone.
The bartender slid a key across the bar. “Back room’s yours.”
Silas picked it up, his fingers brushing hers. “Thank you .”
She didn’t look away. Didn’t pull her hand back. Just let the weight of the moment settle between them, heavy and inevitable.
“You sure about this?” she asked.
Silas’s gaze locked onto hers. “More sure than I’ve been in a long time.”
She should’ve walked away. Should’ve told him she had a life, that she didn’t need this, didn’t need *him *. But the way he looked at her, like she was the only thing in the room that mattered, made her stay.
“Then let’s go,” she said.
Silas stood, his limp more pronounced now, his movements slower. But his gaze never wavered from hers. “After you .”
She took a step toward the hidden door, the one she’d never noticed before, the one that led to the secret room at the back of the bar. The door clicked open, revealing darkness beyond.
Silas followed her inside, the key disappearing into his pocket. The door swung shut behind them, sealing them in the space between what was and what could be.
Rory’s breath hitched. She could feel the weight of the past pressing down on her, could hear the echoes of the years they’d spent apart, could taste the salt of the tears she’d never let herself cry.
Silas stepped closer, his hand brushing against hers. “We’re going to be okay,” he said.
She wanted to believe him . Wanted to believe that this was the beginning of something, that this was the moment everything changed.
But the truth was, she didn’t know. Didn’t know if she could trust him , didn’t know if she could trust herself.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked again.
Silas’s gaze locked onto hers. “More sure than I’ve been in a long time.”
She should’ve walked away. Should’ve told him she had a life, that she didn’t need this, didn’t need *him *.
But the way he looked at her, like she was the only thing in the room that mattered, made her stay.
“Then let’s go,” she said.
Silas reached for her hand. His fingers curled around hers, warm and steady. “After you .”
She took a step forward, into the darkness. Into the unknown.
And for the first time in years, she didn’t feel so alone.