AI The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest * flickered weakly against the rain-slicked pavement, its glow bleeding into the fog that curled around the cobblestones like a living thing. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and something older—dust, leather, the faint metallic tang of a hundred unwashed glasses. Aurora Carter, or Rory, as she still thought of herself when no one was looking , had no intention of stepping inside. She was late for her shift at Golden Empress, the delivery bag slung over her shoulder already heavy with the weight of takeout containers and the promise of tips she didn’t dare hope for. But then she saw him.
Silas Blackwood stood near the bar, his back to the door, one hand resting on the polished wood while the other cradled a glass of something amber and smoky. His auburn hair was streaked with silver now, the color of old parchment, and his beard was trimmed with the precision of a man who still carried a razor in his pocket. He was older, of course—fifty-eight, she’d read once in a file she’d never meant to open—but it was the way he moved that made her pause. The slight limp in his left leg, the way he leaned just a fraction too far into the bar as if bracing against an old wound . She hadn’t seen him since the night in Prague, when the operation had gone sideways and he’d come back limping, his face set in a mask of something she couldn’t name then. Regret? Resignation? She’d been too young, too stubborn, to ask.
Rory exhaled through her nose, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. She should walk away. She should keep walking, past the bar, past the life she’d tried to outrun. But the door swung open behind her, and the bell above it chimed like a warning, and suddenly she was there, her boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor, her pulse hammering in her throat.
Silas didn’t turn immediately. He didn’t have to. She could feel the heat of his gaze like a brand on the back of her neck.
“Well,” he said at last, his voice rough as gravel. “If it isn’t the little lawyer who ran away from the law.”
Rory’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t run. I just… left.”
“Left,” he repeated, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “That’s what they all say.” He finally turned, and when he did, the years between them seemed to press in around her like the walls of a tomb. His hazel eyes—once sharp as a blade, now softer, older—locked onto hers. “You look well.”
She scoffed, rolling her shoulders back. “I’m fine.”
“Mm.” He took a slow sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You still have the same mouth.”
Rory’s fingers twitched. “I didn’t come here to talk about me.”
“No?” He set his glass down with deliberate care, the ice clinking against the crystal . “Then what did you come for? A drink? A reminder ?”
The air between them crackled, charged with something unspoken . She should have known he’d recognize her. Silas had always had a knack for spotting people—it was how he’d found her in the first place, back when she was still Rory, still the girl who thought she could outrun her past. But she hadn’t expected him to *remember *. Not like this.
“You look like hell,” she said, because it was true, and because it was easier than admitting she’d been thinking about him for years.
His lips quirked, just once, before smoothing into a line. “And you look like you’ve been running for a while.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the bartender—a young woman with a sharp tongue and sharper eyes—appeared beside them, cutting off whatever Rory was about to say . “You two know each other?”
Silas slid off his stool and pressed a note into her hand. “Two rounds. On me.”
The bartender pocketed the note without a word, her gaze flicking between them before she turned to the shelves behind the bar. Rory watched her go, her stomach twisting. She didn’t have time for this. She didn’t have time for Silas, or his whiskey, or the way his presence made her chest feel too tight.
“You’re still working at the restaurant?” Silas asked, his voice low .
“Part-time,” she said. “Delivery mostly.”
“Still delivering takeout?”
“Still trying to pay rent.”
He chuckled, low and dry. “You always were good at that.”
Rory’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “I didn’t come here to talk about my life.”
“No?” He gestured to the stool beside him. “Then sit.”
She hesitated. The stool was there, warm from his body, and the bar was a cage of its own, but she couldn’t bring herself to take it. Instead, she leaned against the counter, her arms crossed. “What do you want, Silas?”
His eyes darkened. “You.”
The word hung between them, heavy as a secret. Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t heard him say her name in years. Not like this. Not like he meant it.
“You’re not here to help me,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt . “You never were.”
Silas exhaled through his nose, his gaze dropping to the bar before lifting back to hers. “I’m not here to help you. I’m here because I saw you.”
“And?”
“And I thought you might need someone to remind you that the world’s still a dangerous place.”
Rory’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “I know that.”
“Do you?” He took another sip of his whiskey, his expression unreadable . “You ever think about Prague?”
The name dropped between them like a stone. Rory’s fingers dug into her arms, her nails biting into her skin. “No.”
“Liar.”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Silas’s lips twitched. “You always were good at that too.”
The bartender returned with their drinks—two glasses of whiskey, neat, the amber liquid catching the dim light like liquid fire. Rory took hers, the burn of the alcohol searing her throat as she swallowed. She didn’t look at Silas. She couldn’t.
“You left,” he said quietly. “And I let you.”
Rory’s hands trembled . “You didn’t have a choice.”
“Oh, I had a choice.” His voice was low, rough. “I chose to walk away. Just like you did.”
She turned to face him then, her eyes burning. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do I not?” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the bar. “I know you ran from Evan. I know you ran from the law. And I know you ran from me.”
Rory’s chest ached. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” He studied her, his gaze searching. “You ever think about why you left? Or was it just easier to pretend you didn’t care?”
The words struck her like a blow. Rory’s breath came faster, her fingers tightening around her glass. “I cared.”
“Then why didn’t you stay?”
She looked away, her throat tight. “Because I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?”
She turned back to him, her voice barely above a whisper . “It doesn’t matter.”
Silas’s expression softened, just for a moment. “It does to me.”
Rory’s heart pounded in her ears. She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that he didn’t understand, that none of this was his fault, that she’d made her choices and she’d live with them. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in the weight of all the years she’d spent running.
The bartender cleared her throat, breaking the silence . “You two done here, or should I start charging for the air?”
Rory’s fingers curled around her glass, her knuckles white. She should go. She should walk out the door and never look back. But the air between her and Silas was thick with something she couldn’t name, something that had been building for years, and she couldn’t bring herself to leave.
“What now?” she asked, her voice raw .
Silas studied her for a long moment, his gaze searching. “Now,” he said at last, “we talk.”
Rory’s stomach twisted. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to remember . But she couldn’t bring herself to leave.
“Fine,” she said, her voice barely audible . “But only if you promise not to tell me things I don’t want to hear.”
Silas’s lips quirked. “No promises.”
The bartender slid a menu across the bar, her eyes flicking between them. “You two want food, or are you just here to drink and talk about your feelings?”
Rory’s cheeks burned. “We’re not—”
“Just food,” Silas interrupted, his voice smooth . “And keep the whiskey coming.”
The bartender nodded, already turning away. Rory exhaled sharply , her fingers tightening around her glass. She should have known better than to think this would be easy. She should have known better than to think she could walk into a bar and walk out unchanged.
Silas raised his glass to hers, his eyes never leaving hers. “To old friends,” he said.
Rory hesitated, then lifted her glass. “To old mistakes.”
Their glasses clinked, the sound sharp in the quiet bar. Rory took a sip of her whiskey, the burn of it grounding her, anchoring her to the present. But the past was always there, lurking in the corners of her mind, waiting for her to look away.
Silas watched her, his expression unreadable . “You ever think about what you left behind?”
Rory’s fingers trembled around her glass. She didn’t answer.
“You ever think about what you lost?”
She looked away, her throat tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Silas’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You always were good at that.”
Rory’s breath hitched. She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that he didn’t understand, that none of this was his fault, that she’d made her choices and she’d live with them. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in the weight of all the years she’d spent running.
The bartender returned with their food—a plate of smoked salmon and a bowl of pickled vegetables for Silas, a simple charcuterie board for Rory—and the silence between them grew heavier, thicker. Rory picked at her food, her appetite gone, her mind racing . She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected to see Silas again, let alone to find herself sitting across from him, the weight of the past pressing down on her like a physical force.
“You ever think about Eva?” Silas asked suddenly, his voice quiet .
Rory’s fingers stilled. “No.”
“No?” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the bar. “You don’t think about her at all?”
Rory’s chest tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Silas’s eyes darkened. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Rory.”
She looked away, her throat tight. “I don’t know why you’re doing this.”
“Doing what?” He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gaze never leaving hers. “Reminding you that you’re not the only one who’s changed?”
Rory’s fingers curled into fists. “I haven’t changed.”
“Have you not?” He studied her, his expression unreadable . “You’re still running, Rory. You’re still trying to outrun the things you don’t want to face.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the words stuck in her throat. She didn’t want to admit it. She didn’t want to admit that she was still running, that she was still trying to outrun the past.
Silas’s lips quirked. “You always were good at that.”
Rory’s breath came faster, her fingers trembling around her glass. She wanted to leave. She wanted to walk out the door and never look back. But the past was always there, waiting for her, and she couldn’t bring herself to run.
“What now?” she asked, her voice barely audible .
Silas studied her for a long moment, his gaze searching. “Now,” he said at last, “we start over.”
Rory’s heart pounded in her ears. She didn’t want to start over. She didn’t want to remember . But she couldn’t bring herself to leave.
“Fine,” she said, her voice raw . “But only if you promise not to tell me things I don’t want to hear.”
Silas’s lips quirked. “No promises.”
The bartender slid a fresh glass of whiskey across the bar, her eyes flicking between them. “You two done here, or should I start charging for the air?”
Rory’s fingers curled around her glass, her knuckles white. She should have known better than to think this would be easy. She should have known better than to think she could walk into a bar and walk out unchanged.
Silas raised his glass to hers, his eyes never leaving hers. “To old friends,” he said.
Rory hesitated, then lifted her glass. “To old mistakes.”
Their glasses clinked, the sound sharp in the quiet bar. Rory took a sip of her whiskey, the burn of it grounding her, anchoring her to the present. But the past was always there, lurking in the corners of her mind, waiting for her to look away.
She looked at Silas, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, she saw the man he’d become. The weight of the years pressed down on her, heavy and unyielding, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away.
“What now?” she asked, her voice barely audible .
Silas studied her, his expression unreadable . “Now,” he said at last, “we face the things we’ve been running from.”
Rory’s breath hitched. She didn’t want to face them. She didn’t want to remember . But she couldn’t bring herself to run.
She took another sip of her whiskey, the burn of it searing her throat, grounding her in the present. She looked at Silas, and for the first time in years, she saw the man he’d become. And she knew, with a certainty that burned worse than the whiskey, that she couldn’t run anymore.