AI The green neon sign above The Raven’s Nest door flickered once, then settled into a soft glow, painting the Soho street outside in sickly lime. Inside, the last of the night’s regulars had stumbled out ten minutes prior, their laughter fading into the hum of distant traffic. Silas Blackwood leaned against the bar, his left knee clicking when he shifted his weight , polishing a half-empty tumbler with a frayed linen rag. The walls were lined with old maps and frayed black-and-white photographs—some pinned with rusted thumbtacks, others taped to the scuffed bartop, where rings from forgotten pints had baked into the grain over decades.
Rory Carter slouched on a stool at the far end, her delivery bag propped between her feet, the strap digging into her shoulder. She’d finished her final drop of the night ten minutes before, a plate of vegetable dim sum for a couple holed up in a flat above a kebab shop, and had stuck around to grab a pint before trundling up the stairs to her flat above the bar. Her straight black hair fell in a curtain over her bright blue eyes, and she twisted the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist between her fingers, a habit she’d picked up when she was nervous . She’d hidden that scar from almost everyone except Jessa, once, after crashing her dad’s bike and scraping her wrist on a metal fence behind their childhood school. Now she let it glint for a second before tucking her hand under the bar, out of sight.
The bell above the door jingled.
Silas looked up, his hazel eyes softening when he saw who stood there, then went back to polishing his glass without a word. Rory followed his gaze, and for a second, she thought she was hallucinating .
The woman outside carried a leather briefcase, her hair straightened to a sharp, glossy bob that stopped at her jawline. She wore a tailored navy blazer over a cream silk blouse, the fabric crisp enough to crackle when she shifted her weight , and her loafers clicked against the wooden floorboards as she stepped inside. A silver necklace glinted at her throat, and her lips were painted a deep red that matched the lipstick stain on the rim of the first glass she picked up from the bar. She scanned the room, her gaze flicking over the maps and photographs before landing on Rory. Her breath caught, just a fraction, and she set the briefcase on the bar with a solid thud that made the coasters slide an inch.
“Just draft ale and whisky tonight,” Silas called, not looking up from his rag. “No fancy spirits.”
The woman’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Rory. Her voice was the same warm, rough edge it had always had, the kind that made Rory feel like she could tell her anything.
“Rory?”
Rory’s throat went dry. She’d heard that voice once, a hundred times, back when they shared a flat in Cardiff, back when they’d stay up until 3 AM eating cold pizza and complaining about pre-law lectures, back when she’d first started seeing Evan. It had been four years, almost to the day, since she’d blocked her number, since she’d packed her bags and fled to London with Eva. She’d thought she’d never hear it again.
“Jessa?”
The woman smiled, but it was tight, strained, nothing like the wide, toothy grins they’d shared in their flat. She pulled out the stool next to Rory and sat down, adjusting her blazer so it sat smooth over her hips. “I saw the neon sign last week. Followed the bike route, saw you out front with the delivery bags. Didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”
Rory stared at her. “You followed my route?”
Jessa nodded, tapping her briefcase with her index finger. “Moved to London six months ago. Works in the city now. Corporate law. Told you I’d end up here, remember?”
Rory laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You said you’d move to a commune in Cornwall and paint murals on abandoned barns. Not wear a blazer to 12-hour meetings.”
Jessa’s cheeks flushed, and she ran a hand through her bob, a nervous tick Rory had forgotten she had. “Life happened. Got a job offer, took it. Paid off my student loans. Bought a flat in Camden.” She paused, nodding at the bar. “Silas is still here, then?”
“Lives above the shop, too,” Rory said, nodding at the stairs behind the bar. She gestured at the pint glass Silas had set in front of her, then at the one Jessa was now pointing at. “Draft ale. Hits harder than the pre-law lecture energy drinks we used to chug.”
Jessa laughed, a real laugh this time, bright and warm, and Rory felt a twist in her chest. It had been so long since she’d heard that sound . Silas brought over their pints, setting one in front of Jessa, his right hand flashing the silver signet ring he never took off. He gave Rory a quick, knowing nod, then limped back behind the bar to restock the taps.
Jessa picked up her pint, sniffed it, then took a sip, letting the ale coat her tongue in bitter, warm waves. Her eyes flicked to Rory’s left wrist, where she’d tucked her hand under the bar, and Rory felt her skin prickle. She’d forgotten that Jessa noticed the scar, that she’d been the one to help Rory clean it up after the bike crash, when their teacher had made them stay after school for disrupting class.
“I tried to find you,” Jessa said, her voice quiet . “After you left. Called your flat, your mom said you’d moved somewhere and didn’t leave a forwarding address. Said you didn’t want anyone to contact you.”
Rory’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t. Not after Evan.”
Jessa’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. I should have called the cops that night. Should have fought him off when he came to the flat. I froze. I—”
“You didn’t have to,” Rory said, cutting her off. She reached across the bar, grabbing her pint glass, and took a long sip. The ale was sharp, perfect , cutting through the tightness in her chest. “He told me if I ever told anyone, he’d make sure I never saw another person again. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
Jessa nodded, her eyes glistening . “I get it. I get why you left. I just… I wish you’d let me come with you. Eva called me a month after you left, said you were in London. I tried to reach out, but you didn’t answer any of my texts. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Rory looked down at her pint, at the foam at the top, swirling with the movement of the bar. She’d not talked about that time with anyone except Eva, not in four years. Silas knew bits and pieces, but he’d never pushed. She’d thought she’d buried that part of her life, buried Evan, buried the way she’d felt small and scared and trapped. But now Jessa was sitting here, looking at her like she was still the girl who’d shared a flat with her, like she still mattered.
“You look good,” Jessa said, after a long silence . “Really good. Not like… like when you were with him.”
Rory laughed, bitter this time. “I deliver dim sum for a living. Sleep in a flat above a bar. Wear the same faded delivery t-shirt three days a week.”
“Your eyes are brighter,” Jessa said, leaning forward a little. “You used to dim them down when he was around. I remember that. You’d wear baggy sweaters, hide your wrists, just so he wouldn’t get mad.”
Rory tucked her left wrist under the bar again, then felt a pang of guilt . She should stop hiding it, now that Jessa was here. She pulled her hand out, holding it up to the dim light, and the crescent scar glinted in the neon glow. “Got this when I was 12. Crashed my dad’s bike. You helped me clean it up.”
Jessa reached across the bar, her hand slow, gentle, and touched the scar with her index finger. Rory didn’t flinch this time. She didn’t feel the tightness in her chest, didn’t feel like she was back in that flat, with Evan screaming at her. She felt like she was 19 again, sitting on the floor of their flat, eating cold pizza, talking about their future.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” Jessa said, her voice soft . “I was so worried about you.”
Rory nodded, and for the first time all night, she let herself relax. She leaned back against the stool, her delivery bag slipping off the edge, and she didn’t care. She looked at Jessa, at her blazer, her bob, her red lipstick, and she saw the girl who’d stayed up with her until 3 AM, who’d lent her her favorite sweater when she was cold, who’d laughed at her bad jokes. She saw the girl she’d left behind in Cardiff, the girl who’d thought her future was pre-law and law school and a boring office job. But now she was here, in Soho, working a part-time delivery job, living above a bar run by a retired spy, and she was safe.
“Me too,” Rory said, and she meant it.