AI Rory pushed through the heavy oak door of The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign above flickering like a faulty heartbeat against the Soho dusk. Rain slicked the streets outside, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that shattered under passing tires. She shook droplets from her black hair, shoulder-length and straight, clinging now to her neck. The bar's warmth hit her first—cigarette smoke laced with the sharp tang of spilled whiskey—followed by the low hum of voices and the clink of glasses. Walls papered in faded maps and sepia photos loomed around her, shadows pooling in corners where patrons hunched over their drinks.
She scanned the room, bright blue eyes narrowing against the dim light. Her shift at Golden Empress had dragged into overtime, deliveries piling up like regrets, and now she craved just one pint before climbing the stairs to the flat above. Silas had mentioned it was available—cheap rent, no questions asked—but she hadn't met him yet. Not in person. Their exchanges had been emails, terse and efficient , like old telegrams.
A figure at the end of the bar caught her gaze. Tall, broad-shouldered, with grey-streaked auburn hair catching the amber glow of a pendant lamp. He leaned on the polished wood, polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days. The limp registered next—subtle, a shift in his weight as he pivoted to greet a regular. Silver signet ring glinted on his right hand. Rory's breath hitched. No. Couldn't be.
She crossed the floor, boots scuffing the worn planks, heart thudding louder than the jazz murmuring from the jukebox. Up close, the hazel eyes confirmed it. Silas Blackwood. The man who'd slipped her sweets during her father's endless legal dinners back in Cardiff, years before she'd even thought of London. He'd been a family friend then, orbiting her parents' circle—her da's mysterious contact from some government stint. But that was a lifetime ago, before the scar on her wrist from that stupid bike crash, before Evan, before everything splintered.
"Si?" Her voice cut through the din, sharper than she intended.
He froze, rag midway over the glass rim. Those hazel eyes lifted, locked on hers, and something flickered there—recognition, then a wall slamming down. He set the glass aside with deliberate care, the clink echoing in the space between them.
"Rory Carter." No question in his tone, just fact, gravelly from years of smoke or secrets. He straightened, the slight hitch in his left leg barely noticeable now, but she saw it. Time etched lines around his mouth, deepened the grey in his beard.
She slid onto a stool, fingers tracing the crescent scar on her wrist without thinking. "Bloody hell. It's been... what, fifteen years? You look—"
"Older." He cut her off, pouring a pint from the tap without asking. Froth spilled over the edge, and he pushed it toward her. "You look like your mother. Eyes and all."
Rory took the glass, cool against her palm, and sipped. Bitter hops bit her tongue. She set it down, studying him. The bar's patina suited him now—the maps on the walls mirroring the hidden paths he'd walked as MI6's shadow. Back then, he'd been vibrant, full of stories he'd never quite tell, limping less from that Prague mess he never mentioned. Now, at fifty-eight, authority clung to him like the haze in the air. Changed. Hardened.
"You own this place?" She gestured at the room, the photographs of forgotten spies or lovers staring back. "Silas Blackwood, barman. Suits you more than chasing ghosts for the Crown."
He chuckled, low and dry, wiping his hands on his apron. Leaned closer, elbows on the bar, signet ring tapping wood. "Ghosts catch up eventually. Bought the Nest after retirement. Keeps the hands busy." His gaze dropped to her wrist, lingered on the scar. "Heard you were coming. Eva mentioned it in passing. Childhood friend, right? Pulled you out of Cardiff."
Rory's grip tightened on the glass. Eva. Always the connector, the one who'd dragged her here after Evan's fists left more than bruises. "Yeah. Needed a fresh start. Delivery gig pays the bills. Flat upstairs—your doing?"
"Front desk handles that." He nodded toward the stairs at the back, hidden behind a bookshelf that looked too solid to move. "No strings. Pay on time, keep the noise down."
She laughed, short and forced. The tension coiled in her chest, unspoken years stretching between them like a frayed wire. Back in Cardiff, he'd been the uncle figure—quiet authority, slipping her books on ciphers when her da droned about cases. She'd idolized him, the spy in tweed, before life ground that sparkle away. Now, his limp spoke of Prague's fallout, the botched op that ended his field days. Regret hung there, in the lines of his face, the way he avoided her eyes too long.
"You vanished after that dinner," she said, voice steady despite the pull . "Da said you got posted overseas. Then nothing. Letters bounced back."
Silas's jaw tightened, beard shadowing the flex. He reached for a bottle of Scotch, poured himself a finger without ice. Swirled it, amber catching light. "Life pulls you under. Prague was the last straw. Knee never healed right." He tapped his left leg, casual, but his eyes darkened. "Your da—Brendan—tried to keep in touch. But I cut lines. Safer that way."
"For who?" Rory leaned in, the bar's warmth pressing close . A couple at the end laughed, oblivious, but here it narrowed to them. Time's weight settled, heavy as the rain outside. She'd fled her own messes—Evan's rage, the law degree she'd abandoned like a half-read book. Silas had taught her resilience once, in stolen moments. Now, she saw the cost in him.
He sipped the Scotch, throat working. Set the glass down harder than needed. "For everyone. You were a kid then, Rory. Bright, full of questions. Didn't need my shadows creeping in."
"But they did." She traced the bar's grain, fingers restless. The scar itched, memory of that childish fall—bike tires on gravel, blood mixing with tears. He'd bandaged it himself, that night, murmuring about tougher skins. "Evan... he wasn't like that at first. Charming. Then it twisted. I stayed too long. You would've seen it coming, yeah? The out-of-the-box fix."
Silas's hazel eyes met hers, steady now, piercing. "Hindsight's a bastard. Eva got you out. That's what matters." He paused, glancing at the door as thunder rumbled distant. "What brings you here, really ? Not just rent."
Rory exhaled, pint half-gone. The jazz shifted to a slower sax, notes weaving through the smoke. "Running. Always running. Ma's lessons stuck—teach to escape, I guess. But London? It's louder than Cardiff. You ever regret it? The service, the limp, all that?"
He straightened, limp evident as he shifted weight . Poured another finger of Scotch, offered her some. She shook her head. "Regret's for amateurs," he said, but his voice cracked the edge . "Prague... we lost good people. I called the wrong play. Came home in pieces." His ring tapped again, rhythmic . "Opened this to remember. Maps, photos—they mark the paths not taken."
She nodded, the tension thickening. Unspoken regrets layered between them: his for the op, hers for Evan, for the years lost to fear. Silas had changed—authority tempered by loss, the vibrant man dulled to this quiet sentinel . She felt it in her bones, the pull of what they'd been. Friends, almost family, severed by time's cruel edit.
"Tell me about the secret room," she said suddenly , nodding at the bookshelf. "Da mentioned once. Clandestine meetings?"
Silas's lips quirked, the first real smile. "Always the quick thinker." He glanced around, patrons lost in their worlds. "Push the spine on the third shelf. Ravenwood edition. Leads to... business."
Rory laughed, genuine this time, easing the knot. But the regret lingered, in his averted gaze, her scarred wrist. Years apart had carved them new, yet here, in the Nest's glow, the old threads tugged.
He refilled her pint, foam cresting. "Stay a while. Tell me about London. Has it broken you yet?"
"Not yet." She clinked her glass to his. "But it's trying."
The door swung open, bringing cold air and new faces. Silas moved to serve, limp fading into habit. Rory watched, the bar's pulse syncing with hers. Time weighed, but tonight, in words traded over whiskey, it lightened—just a fraction.
She sipped, eyes on the maps, tracing paths she'd yet to walk. Silas returned, leaning in again. "Your da would be proud. Fled the barrister life?"
"Pre-Law dropout." Rory shrugged, but the admission stung . "Couldn't stomach the fights. Not after Evan."
He nodded, no judgment. "Smart. Law's a cage. This—" He swept a hand over the bar. "—it's freedom. Messy, but yours."
The conversation flowed then, halting at first, then deeper. Rory spoke of deliveries through rain-slick streets, the Golden Empress's steam-kissed chaos. Silas countered with bar tales—drunken confessions, lost lovers washing up like driftwood. His voice warmed, stories skirting the edges of his past without diving in. Prague hovered, unnamed, in the pauses.
"You've got that scar still." He nodded at her wrist midway through her pint. "Tough kid."
"Learned from the best." Rory flexed her hand, silver light catching the crescent. "You bandaged it sloppy."
"Lies." He grinned, beard twitching . "Saved your hide."
Laughter bubbled, cutting the tension . But regret surfaced in ripples. She asked about his retirement—the bar as front, contacts lingering like ghosts. He deflected with humor, but his eyes betrayed the ache. Changed, yes. The spy who'd once dazzled a girl with lockpicks now poured pints, leg protesting each step.
As the night deepened, patrons thinned. Rory felt the years' burden in their traded glances—the what-ifs unspoken . She'd idealized him; he'd protected her from afar. Now, face to face, the reality grounded them.
"Ever think of going back?" she asked, voice low as the jukebox hummed .
"To what? fieldwork?" Silas shook his head, refilling his Scotch. "Knee says no. Heart says never." He met her eyes. "You? Law calling?"
Rory stared into her glass, foam settling. "Maybe not. This suits—the movement, the thinking on feet."
"Good." He tapped the bar. "Nest's got your back. Upstairs is home now."
She nodded, warmth spreading. The door rattled with wind, rain lashing windows. Time's weight pressed, but in this dim haven, with old words bridging gaps, regret softened. Silas poured one last round, ring glinting . They talked on, voices weaving through the night, the bar's secrets holding them close.
Hours slipped. Rory glanced at the clock—nearing closing. Silas wiped the counter, movements efficient . "Eva's right. London's your reset."
"Think so?" She stood, stretching, the flat waiting above.
"Know so." He walked her to the stairs, limp pronounced in the quiet. Pushed the bookshelf aside with a creak—raven embossed on the spine. "Welcome home, Rory."
She stepped through, turning back. His hazel eyes held steady, the changed man and the girl she'd been colliding in that look. Regret lingered, but so did possibility. The door clicked shut behind her, the bar's hum fading as she climbed.