Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAW8X764B9KCQHEQ35T13Q

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the kind of quiet energy that only comes from a place where secrets linger like smoke in the air. The neon green sign above the door pulsed faintly, casting a sickly green glow over the dimly lit space. Aurora Carter—Rory, as she preferred—stood at the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass as she watched the door. She hadn’t been here in years. Not since she’d left London after Evan, not since she’d fled the weight of her own life. Then the door swung open. Silas Blackwood stepped inside, his presence like a shadow slipping into the light. He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who had spent too many years watching others move too quickly. His grey-streaked auburn hair was neatly combed, his beard trimmed just so, but his eyes—hazel, sharp as a blade—locked onto hers across the bar. A beat of silence stretched between them, thick with the unspoken weight of years. “You remember me,” he said, his voice low, rough with something like amusement. Rory didn’t flinch. She didn’t need to. She knew him well enough to recognize the way his lips curled just enough to hide the smirk beneath. “Of course I remember you,” she replied, her voice steady despite the way her pulse jumped in her throat. “You’re the one who told me to leave Cardiff.” Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so weary. “And you listened.” She turned her glass in her hands, the ice clinking against the stem. “I had to.” The bar fell silent again, the only sound the occasional murmur of voices from the other end. Silas leaned against the counter, his signet ring catching the light as he shifted his weight. “You look different.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the glass. “So do you.” He studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the small crescent scar on her left wrist—the one she’d gotten as a kid, from a bike accident. “Still the same Rory,” he said finally. “Same sharp mind, same stubborn streak.” “And you’re still the same Silas,” she countered, though the words tasted bitter. “Same way of looking at things.” Silas’s lips twitched. “You’re not the same.” She didn’t deny it. She hadn’t been. Not since she’d left London, not since she’d taken the job at the restaurant, not since she’d moved into the flat above Silas’s bar. She worked nights, delivering food to offices and apartments, her hands always sweaty, her mind racing with the weight of what she’d left behind. Evan had been a mistake, but it wasn’t just him she’d run from. It was the life she’d thought she wanted, the one that had led her to a pre-law degree she’d barely finished, to a city she’d barely survived. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. “You’re not the same,” he repeated, softer this time. “You’re better.” Rory’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know about that.” “You do,” he said, stepping closer. The bar was small, the space between them tight. “You’re the one who’s always been better at this.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The words hung between them, heavy with the years they’d spent apart, with the things they’d both said and left unsaid. Silas reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, offering it to her. She didn’t take it. “You still smoke,” she observed. “Still,” he said, lighting it with a match that flared and died. “Still think you’re the only one who can see the way things are.” Rory exhaled a slow breath, her fingers stilling on the glass. “I don’t know if I can anymore.” Silas studied her for a long moment, his gaze darkening. “You always could.” She looked away, toward the wall where the old maps and photographs hung, their edges faded with time. “I tried.” “You always tried,” he said, softer now. “But you didn’t always succeed.” The words hit her like a punch. She’d failed. Not just at leaving Evan, not just at leaving Cardiff, but at leaving *herself*. She’d spent years running, and in the end, she’d just ended up here, in this bar, with this man who knew her better than anyone. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. “You’re not alone in this,” he said finally. “Not anymore.” Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The silence between them was enough. The bar was quiet, the only sound the occasional clink of glasses, the distant murmur of voices. Silas leaned back against the counter, his limp a quiet reminder of the life he’d left behind. Rory stood there, her hands still wrapped around the glass, her mind racing with the weight of what they’d just said. She was tired. She was done running. And for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go home.