Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA31DNDYB0E8AQW2BE06X1

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying firefly as Rory Carter pushed through the heavy door, the scent of aged whiskey and something faintly metallic—polished brass, maybe—hitting her like a memory. The place was quieter than she expected for a Thursday night, the hum of conversation muted beneath the low thrum of an old jazz record playing from somewhere in the back. She’d only been inside once before, years ago, when Silas had still been running his intelligence network out of this very bar. Back then, the walls had been lined with maps of places she’d never heard of, and the air had carried the weight of secrets. Rory slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, her fingers tracing the edge of a half-empty glass left by the last customer. The bartender—a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper beard—glanced up from polishing a glass and nodded at her without a word. She ordered a gin and tonic, the kind with extra lime, the way she used to drink them when she still had time to sit and think. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not tonight. But after another shift at the Golden Empress, after another day of dodging Evan’s calls and pretending she didn’t hear the way her mother’s voice cracked when she asked if Rory was coming home for Christmas, the bar had felt like the only place that made sense. A place where no one knew her name, where the past was just another layer of dust on the shelves. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood stood near the back, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he spoke to a woman in a deep emerald dress. His auburn hair, streaked now with silver, was pulled back in a loose tie, and the faintest limp in his left leg—something she’d only noticed once before, years ago, when he’d carried her out of a pub after one too many whiskeys—gave him away even from a distance. He laughed at something the woman said, the sound low and rough, the kind of laugh that used to make Rory’s chest tighten when they were younger, when he’d been the only person who ever really *saw* her. She should’ve looked away. Should’ve pretended she didn’t recognize him. But she didn’t. Silas turned just as Rory’s drink arrived, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then his eyes—hazel, flecked with gold, the same ones that had once mapped the contours of her face like she was something precious—widened. A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, and he pushed away from the table, his signet ring glinting under the dim light. “Rory Carter,” he said, his voice rough but warm, like whiskey poured over ice. “Well, I’ll be damned.” The woman beside him—tall, elegant, her dark hair swept into an intricate twist—turned, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Silas, who—?” “An old friend,” he said, cutting her off. His gaze never left Rory’s face. “Excuse me for a moment.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. She should’ve known better than to come here. Should’ve known that some places, some people, had a way of finding you when you least expected it. Silas slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy, like old leather and rain. “You look like hell,” he said, and then, softer, “But not as bad as the last time I saw you.” Rory exhaled a laugh, sharp and unexpected. “That’s not exactly a compliment.” “No,” he agreed. “But it’s the truth.” His eyes flicked over her—her black T-shirt, the scuffed boots, the way her hair fell straight and unadorned around her shoulders. “You used to dress like you were going to a damn ball.” She shrugged, picking at the lime wedge on her glass. “Balls are overrated.” Silas studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out with practiced ease. “You still smoke?” “No,” she said quickly. “Not anymore.” He lit the cigarette anyway, the flame flickering in the dim light. “Liar.” Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. He knew her too well. Silas took a drag, exhaling slowly. “You’re working at the Golden Empress, aren’t you?” She stiffened. “How do you—?” “London’s a small city when you know where to look.” He leaned back, his elbow resting on the counter. “You left Cardiff. No one’s seen you in years. And then suddenly, you’re delivering dumplings in Soho like you’re trying to disappear.” Rory’s throat went dry. “I’m not trying to disappear.” “No?” His voice was gentle, but there was an edge to it, something sharp. “Then what are you doing, Rory?” She should’ve walked away. Should’ve finished her drink and left before he could dig any deeper. But she didn’t. Because for all his questions, for all the way he looked at her like he could see straight through her, there was something in his eyes too—something raw, something she recognized. Regret. “You look different,” she said finally. Silas followed her gaze to his hand, the silver signet ring catching the light. “So do you.” She didn’t press. She didn’t ask about the woman in the emerald dress, or the bar, or the way his voice had gone quiet when he spoke to her. Some things were better left unsaid. Instead, she took a sip of her drink and said, “I heard you retired.” He nodded, the movement slow. “Something like that.” “Good for you.” “Is it?” He studied her over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t running?” Rory’s fingers twitched around her glass. “I’m not running.” “Bullshit.” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of years. “You’re running from something, Rory. And it’s not just Evan.” She flinched. “You don’t know anything about it.” “I know enough.” His gaze was steady, unyielding. “I know you used to be brilliant. I know you had a plan. I know you left everything behind.” “Because I had to,” she snapped. Silas didn’t react. He just took another drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the dark. “You ever think about coming back?” The words hit her like a punch. “To Cardiff? To law school? To—” She cut herself off, her voice dropping to a whisper. “To *him*?” Silas’s expression softened. “Not to him. To *you*.” Rory looked away, her throat tight. The past was a ghost she’d tried to outrun, a version of herself she’d buried under delivery routes and late-night takeout orders. She’d told herself she didn’t miss it. That she didn’t miss *him*. But the truth was, she missed the way things used to be. She missed the weight of a future that had once felt certain. Silas reached out, his fingers brushing against hers where they rested on the counter. His touch was warm, grounding. “You don’t have to do this alone, Rory.” She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But the years between them were a chasm she wasn’t sure she could cross. The woman in the emerald dress appeared beside them, her heels clicking softly against the floor. “Silas, darling, we really must—” He didn’t take his eyes off Rory. “Give us a minute, Clara.” Clara’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded and moved away, her gaze lingering on Rory with something like recognition. Silas turned back to her, his voice low. “You should stay.” Rory’s breath hitched. “Stay where?” “Here.” He gestured to the bar, to the city beyond it, to the life she’d left behind. “With me.” She wanted to say no. Wanted to say she was fine, that she had everything under control. But the words died in her throat. Because for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure she believed them. Silas’s hand found hers again, his fingers threading through hers. “Think about it.” She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “I will.” Outside, the neon sign flickered, casting long shadows across the pavement. Rory stayed where she was, her fingers still tangled with Silas’s, the weight of the past pressing down on her like a storm cloud. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself wonder what might have been.