Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8R33FCM5372SJE4DYS6EN

The bell above the door jingles, a high, tinny sound that cuts through the hum of conversation at The Raven's Nest. Rory Carter pauses mid-sip, her thumb brushing the condensation beading on the cheap wine glass she’s claiming as her own. It’s her day off—a rare thing, with deliveries from Yu-Fei Cheung’s Golden Empress starting at dawn—but Silas had insisted she “loosen up” after a week of breaking into doors to deliver birthday cakes to warehouses in East London. “You look like you’re about to calculate the volume of that cake in metric tons,” he’d said, flicking a washcloth at her. Now, she’s propped against the bar, one socked foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the scuffed wood, and she’s pretty sure said foot is about to wear a hole in the floor. The light from the green neon sign—the *Nest* script bleeding green onto the brick wall—slants across the room, painting the old maps and black-and-white photos that line the walls in strange, shifting hues. A saxophone player in the corner whines through a cover of “At Last,” and Rory’s gaze drifts to the door again. It’s too late for the dinner rush; the crowd is sparse, a group of traders in ill-fitting suits at the far end, a librarian-looking woman nursing a whiskey, a man in a trench coat poring over a leather-bound book that’s definitely not a textbook. *No one* that looks like *Eva*. The name hits her like a fist to the ribs. Eva. *Eve*. They’d been inseparable until Rory was 18, when Evan—blond, loud, a boxer with a temper—had started showing up outside their school, then outside her house, then inside her bed. “He’s just jealous, Ror,” Eva had said, pressing a cold compress to her cheek after one of his slapmarks bloomed. “He’ll stop.” But he hadn’t. Not until Rory had woken up one morning, Evan’s hands around her throat, and she’d driven to the garage, started the car, and floor it, tire screeching, until she was gasping on the M4, tears mixing with rain on her face. Eva had chased her. They’d collided in London Victoria, Eva’s suitcase still packed, her eyes wild. “You can’t disappear,” she’d said. “I need to fix this with you.” But Rory had been too broken, too afraid. Evan’s voice had echoed in her head—*You think I won’t find you?*—and she’d taken the first train to Cardiff, where her father was a barrister, too busy with his cases to notice she’d moved into the spare room. But Cardiff hadn’t held her either. Evan had tracked her down there, too, and that’s when Eva had called, breathless, from a payphone in a Cardiff alley: *Run. Now. I’ll cover. Just… go.* Rory had run. To London. To a flat above a bar in Soho, because Eva had said, “There’s a man there—Silas—he’ll keep you safe.” And he had. Not by magic, but by making her wait tables at first, then begging Yu-Fei to let her deliver orders, then letting her sleep on a cot above the bar when the deliveries ran late. He’d never asked questions, but he’d left mugs of tea on her doorstep when she came home at 3 a.m., and he’d fixed her bike when it got a flat, and he’d said, once, when she’d flinched at a truck backfiring, “Trauma doesn’t care if you’re *supposed* to be over it.” The bell jingles again. Rory’s eyes snap up. The woman standing in the doorway is smaller than she remembers, her shoulders hunched like she’s waiting for a blow. Her hair, once a wild halo of chestnut curls, is now a sleek bob, dyed a faded blonde that doesn’t quite reach her roots. She’s wearing a tailored blazer—navy, charcoal pinstripes—over a silk blouse that’s probably expensive, and black heels that click too loud against the floor. Her face is the same, but shifted: the high cheekbones, the cupid’s bow mouth, the mole above her lip. Only it’s heavier now, the smile tentative, the eyes—once so bright, like she had the whole world in a jar—hazy, like she’s been squinting into the sun too long. Rory’s throat tightens. Eva would never wear heels. Eva would never look like she’s afraid to breathe. “You’re… here,” the woman says, her voice a question. It’s lower than Rory remembers, rougher, like she’s smoked a pack a day for a decade. Rory nods, her tongue heavy. “Yeah. Me.” She sets the wine glass down, too hard; it rattles. “You—” She clears her throat. “You look… well.” Eva manages a smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “You too. Like you’re not going to bolt if I breathe too loud.” The words hang between them, sharp as broken glass. Rory touches her left wrist, the small crescent scar there, from when she’d fallen out of a tree at 12, Eva holding her hand while the paramedics stitched her up. *We’ll be together forever*, they’d whispered, covered in dirt and tears. *No one will ever take you away.* “Silas is back there,” Rory says, jerking her chin toward the bar. Silas is polishing a whiskey glass, his auburn hair catching the neon light, his beard a neat frame for his mouth. He’s got the left leg bent slightly, the knee swollen, the limp she’s grown used to—though she knows he’d deny it if she asked. “He… he’ll fix you up.” Eva laughs, a bitter sound. “Fix me? I don’t need fixing, Ror. I’m fine.” “Eva.” Rory uses her name, not “Eve.” It feels like a bridge, wobbly but there. “When was the last time you had a drink that wasn’t straight whiskey? With ice? Not… just to steady your hands.” Eva freezes. For a second, Rory sees the girl she used to know—the one who’d sneak into Rory’s window to share stolen chocolate, who’d scream at Rory’s dad for being too busy with his cases, who’d cried into her pillow when Rory left. But it’s gone as fast as it came, replaced by a weary shrug. “Ice melts. Straight’s easier.” Rory pushes off the bar, her shoes silent against the floor. “Sit. Please.” She pulls out a stool and slides it over. “I brought a glass. It’s cheap, but… it’s wine.” Eva hesitates, then sits. Her hands shake as she wraps them around the glass. “You never called,” she says, and the words are quiet, but not sad. They’re raw, like a scab picked at. Rory sits too, propping her elbow on the bar. “I didn’t know how,” she says. “I was scared. Evan—” She stops, swallows. “He’d look at my phone, check my texts. I was afraid every call he made would be to him. And then… I didn’t want to be that girl, you know? The one who gets hurt. So I just… kept moving.” Eva’s eyes shine. “You became a ghost, Ror. I’d see you in the papers—delivering cakes to the Royal Albert Hall, winning some stupid award for ‘Most Efficient Delivery Person’—and I’d think, *Is that her?* But she wasn’t. She was… someone else.” Rory’s scar prickles. “What did you want me to be?” Eva stares into her wine. “I wanted you to be *safe*. I wanted you to laugh like you used to, like the world was a puzzle you were going to solve. I wanted… I wanted you to need me.” The words hit Rory like a wave. She had no idea. For years, she’d thought Eva had gotten tired—tired of chasing her, tired of watching her break. But Eva needed her, too. *We’re just two people, broken in different ways*, her father had told her once, when she’d confessed she missed her. *You can’t fix each other, but you can hold each other.* Silas appears beside them, his limp not quite so pronounced when he’s focused, his hazel eyes softening when he sees Eva. “Rory says you’re in need of a fix,” he says, setting a small crystal decanter down between them. “Red wine. A bottle, actually. I was saving it for a rainy day, but… rainy days are for friends.” Rory’s throat burns. “Silas—” “Shut up, Rory,” Eva says, and it’s warm, like the old days. Silas winks, then moves to the other side of the bar, calling out to a regular. Rory watches her friend pour three glasses, the wine a deep ruby in the green light. “You know,” Eva says, taking a sip, “I tried to find you. After you left. I went to Cardiff, to your dad, but he just… said you were fine. That you’d come back when you were ready.” Rory nods. “He was right. I wasn’t ready. But… I’m trying now.” Eva meets her eyes. “What about Evan? Is he…?” “Gone,” Rory says, and it’s the first time she’s said it out loud, not because it’s true, but because it *should* be. “I don’t know where. I haven’t heard from him in three years. I think… I think he finally got bored.” Eva smiles, a real smile this time, and Rory’s chest aches. “Good. He never deserved you.” “Neither did I,” Rory says, before she can stop herself. Eva’s smile fades. “You were 18. He manipulated you. Everyone saw it but you.” Rory touches the scar on her wrist. “I saw it. Eventually. But it took a long time to learn how to love myself again, Evie. Long enough that I didn’t have time to call you. Long enough that I built a life where I don’t need to ask for help.” Eva’s voice cracks. “But love isn’t about not needing help. It’s about letting someone hold you when you fall.” Rory closes her eyes. For a second, she’s 12 again, falling out of that tree, Eva’s hand tight around hers. *We’ll be together forever*, they’d said. But forever is a lie. People grow. People change. People hurt each other. “I’m sorry,” she says, when she opens her eyes. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call. I’m sorry I let you think I didn’t need you.” Eva reaches across the bar, lacing their fingers together. Her hands are calloused, like she types too much, or cooks, or hits something hard often. But they’re warm, too—warmer than Rory remembers. “I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder,” she says. “I was scared you’d leave again. Scared I’d lose you.” Rory squeezes her hand. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to.” Eva laughs. “I don’t want you to go anywhere. I want… I want us to find our way back. Slowly. No pressure. Just… coffee. Or wine. Or… whatever you want.” Rory nods. “Whatever I want.” She pauses. “I’d like that. Coffee. Tomorrow. At 10 a.m. My treat.” Eva grins. “10 a.m. It’s a date.” Silas appears again, refilling their glasses. “About time,” he says, but his eyes are soft. “I’ve been waiting to kick both your arses for leaving each other in the first place.” Rory laughs, a sound she hasn’t made in a long time—bright, unguarded, *hers*. “We’ll start with 10 a.m. tomorrow,” she says. “But first… this wine is amazing.” Eva clinks her glass against Rory’s. “To the past,” she says. “And the future.” “To the future,” Rory says. The saxophone player starts up again, but Rory doesn’t notice. She’s too busy looking at her friend, at the way the neon light catches her face, at the way Eva’s hand is still in hers. Time has passed, sure, but it’s also made space—space for healing, for regret, for the kind of connection that doesn’t need words, just a hand to hold. Rory Carter has a scar on her wrist. Eva has calluses on her hands. Some things never change. Some things, finally, do.