AI Rory Carter dried the rim of a pint glass, tracing the faint condensation with her thumb. The Raven’s Nest, Silas’s place, hummed with the lower thrum of a Tuesday night. Outside, Soho’s perpetual neon bled into the damp pavement, but inside, shadows clung to the walls, punctuated by the amber glow of the beer taps and the distant, melancholic blues drifting from a hidden speaker. Old maps, creased and faded, papered one wall, charting territories long since swallowed by time. Black-and-white photographs of stern-faced men and a few daring women stared out from another, their lives frozen in monochrome. Rory lived upstairs, above all this quiet history, a life stacked vertically, from the ghost-laced air of the bar to her own small flat, a world away from the pre-law lectures she’d fled years ago. Her delivery bag, grease-stained and familiar , sat propped against the bar.
A man pushed through the heavy oak door, shaking rain from a collar that looked a size too large. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom , a frown creasing his brow as he scanned the room with a soft, uncertain gaze. He wore a suit that had once been fashionable, the kind that spoke of offices and meetings scheduled weeks in advance, now slightly rumpled, its shoulders drooping a touch. His light brown hair, thinning at the crown, was plastered to his forehead by the rain. He took a few hesitant steps deeper into the bar, his gaze sweeping over the occupied tables until it landed on Rory.
His frown melted, replaced by a widening disbelief. He straightened, a hesitant smile beginning to etch itself onto his face, and started towards her, weaving a slightly awkward path around a couple engrossed in hushed conversation.
"Rory?" the voice, tentative, a little higher than she remembered, broke the quiet current of the bar. "Aurora Carter? Is that really you?"
Rory’s hand stilled on the glass. The sound of her full name, rarely used now, brought a prickle to her skin. She turned fully, her own gaze meeting his. Recognition flickered like a faulty bulb, a ghost from years past, a face she hadn’t consciously thought about in ages. Liam. From Cardiff. From before.
"Liam." Her voice was steady, betraying none of the sudden jolt he’d caused. She set the damp glass down, leaning her forearms on the polished wood. "Wow. What are you doing here? Come for one of Silas’s 'special' ales?" A small, dry smile touched her lips.
He stopped a few feet away, his eyes roving over her face, then down to the faded Yu-Fei Cheung’s logo on her uniform shirt before snapping back up. The uncertain smile faltered, replaced by a look that was hard to decipher – part shock, part confusion, and something else, something tinged with pity.
"I… I just flew in for a conference across town," he stammered, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Hadn't expected… I mean, you. Not here. Not like this."
Rory’s eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch. "Like what, Liam? Like a person who works in a bar in Soho?"
He flushed, running a hand over his thinning hair. "No, no, that's not what I meant. It's just… you were always so… driven. Back in university. Professor Davies said you had the sharpest mind in the entire cohort, destined for the bench, not… not this." He trailed off, his gaze dropping again towards her stained delivery shirt beneath the bar apron.
"Professor Davies," Rory repeated, the name tasting like chalk dust. "He wanted me in a courtroom, yes. Filled with stale arguments and even stalier ambitions. This," she gestured around the bar, the faint scent of wood polish and aged spirits, "is a lot livelier than his lecture hall. And considerably less predictable ."
"Predictable?" Liam scoffed, though it lacked conviction. "Rory, a bit of predictability is a good thing. Stability. I’m a senior partner at Davies & Finch now. Made partner last year. Hannah and I, we’ve got two kids. Little Freddie is starting school in September, and Sophie, she’s just turned five. Solid. Sensible. Building something." He puffed out his chest slightly , a man displaying the tangible proof of a life well-navigated .
Rory just watched him, the slight crescent scar on her left wrist a faint silver line beneath the bar lights. She remembered Liam. He’d been decent, not part of the crowd that had made her life a misery, but always a bit too eager to please, too quick to nod at the professor’s pronouncements. He’d never really challenged anything. He’d taken the safe route, the one her parents had approved of from the moment she’d been accepted into the law program. And now he stood here, a living monument to that path, offering it up like a trophy.
"That’s… good. For you," Rory said, her voice carefully neutral . She picked up another pint glass, the familiar weight grounding her. "Stable. And is Hannah… is she happy? With the dentistry?"
Liam blinked, taken aback by the question, then nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, immensely! Loves it. Loves the predictability, she says. Knowing what tomorrow holds. Unlike all that… drama you left behind." He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially, though his eyes still held that distant, confused look. "We heard some things, you know. Back in Cardiff. Evan. That he... well, the stories were not good. I always hoped you got away clean."
Rory felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach that had nothing to do with Evan and everything to do with Liam’s interpretation of her escape. ‘Drama’ was such a sterile word for the jagged edges of her past. She’d fled because she’d had to. Fled a life that was suffocating her, a relationship that had threatened to break her. And she hadn’t gotten away ‘clean’; she’d gotten away battered, but she had gotten away. That was the victory.
"One never truly leaves drama behind, Liam," she said softly , her gaze drifting towards the back of the bar where Silas, a figure of quiet, unshakeable calm, meticulously polished a long-necked bottle. His grey-streaked auburn hair was neatly trimmed, his hazel eyes sharp even at this distance. He’d seen and heard more than anyone in this city, a quiet sentinel in his own domain. Silas was stability of a different sort. "You just learn to carry it differently. Or sometimes, you learn to use it. What do you do at Davies & Finch, Liam? Besides making partner."
His shoulders slumped a little at the implied challenge. "Conveyancing. Property law. Mergers and acquisitions for bigger firms. It's… detailed. Important work, ensuring smooth transitions." He looked up, meeting her eyes, a flicker of something like longing in their faded blue . "You know, Rory, I still have that copy of 'Great Expectations' you lent me. Remember? We were studying Dickens that year. Always thought you'd be the one to prosecute the Pip and Estellas of the world. Instead…" He gestured around again, his gaze lingering on the worn bar top, the faded maps. "This feels so… adrift."
"Adrift?" Rory gave a short, bark-like laugh, devoid of humour. "Or anchored? Depends on what you’re trying to keep from sinking, doesn't it? Some people build ships. Others build lighthouses. You've built a very comfortable harbour, Liam. I'm still learning to navigate the tides. But at least I'm moving." She twisted the pint glass between her hands, its coolness a familiar sensation against her skin. "You look tired, Liam. All that stability must take a toll."
He offered a weak smile. "Long hours. Demanding clients. But it’s rewarding. Knowing you’re providing… security. What about you? Delivering for that Chinese place? Is that… is that what you want to be doing?"
Rory met his earnest, concerned gaze. The ease with which he assumed her life was a failure gnawed at her. He saw the delivery uniform, he saw the bar, and his mind filled in the blanks with disappointment. He couldn't fathom that the "drama" she left behind had forced her to build a new foundation, brick by careful brick, aided by a man who understood shadows. He couldn't see the intelligence Silas nurtured, the quick thinking he honed.
"What I *want * to be doing," Rory began, selecting her words with precision, "is getting paid enough to not worry about rent. And learning things. Silas here," she nodded towards the barman, whose silver signet ring glinted as he reached for a bottle behind the counter, "he's a font of… of interesting information. And skills." She saw Liam’s eyes flick towards Silas, a flicker of unease disturbing his features at the mention of the bar owner. Silas, with his quiet authority and the faint limp that betrayed a past far more complex than conveyancing. "I deliver their food, yes. And sometimes, I help Mr. Blackwood behind the bar. Learn the trade. Keep my wits sharp. It’s a good life."
Liam traced the rim of an imaginary glass on the bar. "A 'good life'. Right. I suppose the rent isn't too bad then? Living above the bar?"
"It's a roof over my head," Rory replied curtly, the conversation circling back to practicalities that felt like accusations . "Cheaper than anything else in this city. And Silas makes sure I don't get… I don't get into trouble." She met Liam’s gaze, a challenge in her bright blue eyes. "You know, Liam, that crescent scar on my wrist?" She glanced down at it. "Got that when I was seven, trying to impress my dad by climbing his favourite apple tree. He wanted me to be careful. I wanted to be brave. I ended up with a scar and a stern lecture. Seems some lessons take a very long time to sink in."
Liam’s eyes followed hers. He remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond her wrist, on the past they no longer shared. The weight of unspoken years settled between them, heavy as the London fog outside. He’d expected to reconnect, perhaps find the old sparks in a familiar face. Instead, he found a stranger cloaked in familiarity, a life built on choices he couldn't comprehend, her eyes holding a depth he’d never seen before, a depth that spoke of battles fought and a precarious peace won. He looked at his hands, then back at her, the carefully constructed confidence of Davies & Finch seeming to chip away under the quiet hum of The Raven's Nest. The conversation had certainly gone somewhere, but not anywhere he'd anticipated. It had moved from a chance encounter to an examination of two vastly different lives; a quiet, almost imperceptible interrogation of success and survival.
His mouth opened, then closed. He seemed to search for words adequate to bridge the chasm that had opened between them. He looked around the bar again, as if seeking an anchor, something familiar to grasp onto . Silas, the man with the silver ring and the quiet authority, remained impassive, a silent figure in his dimly lit kingdom. Liam’s gaze drifted back to Rory, his faded blue eyes now clouded with a regret that was both his and, perhaps, hers.
"You were always brave, Rory," he finally managed, the words a fragile echo of their shared past. "More than anyone realised."
The silence that followed was thick, filled with the clinking of glasses from the other end of the bar and the distant wail A siren. Rory Carter merely inclined her head, a gesture that could have meant anything.