Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8E3RM307T66JZY9JM0KHC

The green neon of The Raven’s Nest bled onto the wet pavement outside, casting a sickly glow on the late-night drizzle. Rory wiped condensation from the countertop with a practiced swipe, the damp cloth leaving streaks on the polished wood. Tuesday nights were slow, mostly regulars nursing pints and avoiding eye contact. Silas was behind the bar, polishing glasses with a precision that bordered on obsessive. His silver signet ring caught the light with each turn of the cloth. The bell above the door chimed, a discordant sound in the quiet bar. A man stood framed in the doorway, shaking raindrops from a dark coat. Rory’s hand paused mid-wipe. It took a moment for her brain to reconcile the silhouette with the ghost of a memory. “Evan?” The name felt foreign on her tongue, a relic she hadn’t dusted off in years. He looked…different. The boy she remembered – lean, cocky, with a wildness in his eyes – had been replaced by a man sculpted with hard angles. He’d gained weight, yes, but it wasn’t the soft fullness of contentment. It was a bulkiness, a guardedness. His jaw was perpetually clenched, and his eyes, once bright with mischief, were now shadowed and wary. He hadn't met her gaze. “Rory,” he said, his voice lower than she remembered, roughened around the edges. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer any greeting beyond her name. Silas, ever observant, simply raised an eyebrow from behind the bar but continued his task, a silent acknowledgment of the charged air that had suddenly filled the space. “What are you doing here?” Rory asked, keeping her tone neutral, assessing. She knew she looked composed, but her pulse had quickened. Old habits died hard. He shrugged, pushing past the initial shock of the encounter. “Just passing through. Thought I’d…see what a Soho pub was like. Heard this place had character.” “It does.” Rory gestured around the dimly lit bar, the walls adorned with faded maps and black-and-white photographs. It felt less like an invitation and more like a statement of fact. “Silas runs a tight ship.” He finally met her eyes, the gaze lingering a beat too long. She saw a flicker of something there, something she couldn’t decipher. Regret? Shame? It was gone before she could be sure. “Silas,” he nodded towards the bar owner, a curt acknowledgment. “He always did have a knack for finding the best spots.” “Can I get you something?” Rory asked, turning back to her work, needing the task to anchor her. “Whiskey. Neat.” Silas slid the glass across the polished wood with a quiet grace, his hazel eyes flicking between Rory and Evan, assessing. He didn’t say a word, but the subtle tension radiating from him was palpable. Rory knew Silas understood. He always did. Evan took a long swallow, the whiskey burning a path down his throat. He didn’t flinch. “It’s been a while,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “Seven years,” Rory supplied, the number feeling heavier than it should. Seven years since she’d left Cardiff, seven years since she’d effectively disappeared from his life. Seven years spent building a new one, piece by painful piece. “Right.” He stared into his glass, swirling the amber liquid. “Heard you were in London.” “Living above the bar, actually.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Of course you are. Always did have a penchant for the dramatic.” Rory bristled. “It’s a convenient arrangement. And it pays the bills.” She omitted the part-time job at the Golden Empress, the late-night deliveries on a battered bicycle. Keeping secrets was becoming second nature. “Still quick with a retort, I see.” “Some things never change.” She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a souvenir from a childhood tree-climbing expedition, ached faintly. She instinctively covered it with her hand. He noticed, of course. He’d always noticed everything. “Still got the mark?” Rory’s hand remained protectively over her wrist. “It’s a scar. Everyone has them.” “Yours had a story,” he said, his voice soft, almost wistful. “You wouldn’t tell me what happened.” The memory surfaced, unbidden. The scraped knee, the panicked tears, the stubborn refusal to explain. He’d always been infuriatingly persistent, demanding to know everything. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” “It did to you then.” “We were kids,” she said sharply, regretting the edge in her voice. “We did stupid things.” He laughed, a harsh, hollow sound. “Stupid things? Is that what you call it?” He finally looked at her, and the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. “Rory, I…I messed up. Badly.” “You think?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from creeping into her voice. The carefully constructed walls she’d built around her emotions threatened to crumble. “I know. You left, and…I deserved it. But I wanted to find you. I tried.” “Oh, you tried,” she scoffed. “Through mutual friends? Asking about me at university? Sounds like a real dedicated search.” He flinched. "My father…he wasn't happy about us. He intervened. Told me it was for the best. Said you were…a distraction.” He paused, swallowing hard. "I was young. I let him influence me." Rory stared at him, a cold knot forming in her stomach. “So your father got rid of me? Is that what you’re saying?” “It wasn’t like that.” But his voice lacked conviction. She’d known his father. A powerful, controlling man. A barrister, like Rory's own. She should have seen this coming. “Then what was it like? Did he just wave a magic wand and make you forget I existed?” He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, slamming the glass down on the counter. “I made choices, Rory. I made bad choices. And you were right to leave.” “Leaving wasn’t the hard part, Evan. Building something new was.” She glanced at Silas, who was watching the exchange with quiet intensity. "Starting over. Knowing I wasn't worth fighting for." He reached across the bar, his hand hovering over hers. She instinctively pulled back. “Don’t.” He dropped his hand, his expression unreadable. "I see how well you’re doing,” he said, his voice flat. “You’ve changed.” “So have you.” “Not for the better.” She didn’t respond. It was the truth, laid bare between them. He’d once been full of life, of potential. Now, he looked…broken. The weight of regret was a tangible thing around him. “I’m married,” he said, the words falling flatly. "Have a son." The information hit Rory like a physical blow. She hadn't expected to feel anything, but a sharp ache bloomed in her chest. "Congratulations," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s not…happy. Suffice to say, I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” He looked around the bar, avoiding her gaze. “I should go.” He didn't offer a goodbye. He didn't ask about her life, beyond the superficial. He just turned and walked back out into the rain, disappearing into the Soho night. Rory watched him go, her heart a heavy weight in her chest. She picked up the damp cloth and resumed wiping the counter, the rhythmic motion a small attempt to regain control. Silas cleared his throat. “Troubled waters, that one.” Rory managed a weak smile. “Always were.” Silas poured her a small glass of amber liquid. "Something stronger than usual, perhaps?" She nodded, accepting the drink gratefully. It burned going down, a welcome distraction. She looked out the window, the green neon sign reflecting in the rain-slicked street. Some things, she realized, were better left buried. And some ghosts were best left undisturbed. But the ache in her chest remained, a haunting reminder of a past she could never fully escape.