AI The beer in Rory’s bottle had gone warm, the label peeled away in thin, crinkled strips that she stacked in a neat pile next to her scuffed work boots. Her delivery bag slouched against the foot of the bar, the Golden Empress’s red and gold logo faded at the corners, a stray spring roll wrapped in greaseproof paper peeking out from where it had fallen out of a last-minute order to a Soho flat block. She rubbed the crescent scar on her left wrist, the old raised skin catching on the frayed cuff of her sweater, and stared at the rain streaking the smudged front window of The Raven’s Nest. Outside, the bar’s green neon sign bleeded over the pavement, turning the puddles the color of stagnant moss, and for a second Rory was back in Cardiff, 10 years old, scraped and bleeding under an oak tree in Penarth, Eva screaming for a nurse while a jagged branch bit into Rory’s wrist, leaving that exact same crescent shape.
“He’s not coming, lass,” Silas said, wiping a highball glass so hard his knuckles whitened, his silver signet ring catching the dim string light strung above the bar. His auburn hair, streaked through with grey, fell over his hazel eyes when he leaned forward, and Rory knew he was right. She’d stopped waiting for Evan three years ago, but the ghost of the wait lingered, the habit of checking every shadow, every door that creaked open, to see if he’d tracked her across the Welsh border. She rolled her eyes, twisting the warm beer bottle between her palms. “I’m not waiting for him. Just… killing time before I head upstairs. My feet are killing me.”
Silas grunted, his limp shifting his weight when he turned to grab another bottle from the shelf behind him, the old knee injury he never talked about acting up when the rain rolled in. The walls of the Nest were lined with what he claimed were old travel maps, but Rory had spotted the faint MI6 markings on the canvas of Prague pinned above the pool table, the black-and-white photos of men in uniform that weren’t family snapshots, not by a long shot. She didn’t ask. Silas didn’t volunteer. That was how things worked in the Nest.
The bell above the front door jingled, cold rain blowing in with the woman who stepped over the threshold, her oversized wool coat soaked through, the hem dripping on the scuffed wood floor. She shook her head, rain flying off the ends of her mousy brown hair, and for a second Rory didn’t recognize her. The Eva she remembered had dyed her hair neon pink for three years straight, had worn platform boots and crop tops even in the Welsh rain, had laughed so loud she’d gotten them thrown out of every cinema they snuck into as teens. This woman’s shoulders were hunched , a thin white scar slicing through her left jaw, her hands stuffed deep into her coat pockets like she was trying to shrink into herself. She walked to the bar, her boots squeaking, and ordered a whiskey, neat, her voice rough, like she hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.
Rory’s breath caught when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the same little nervous tic she’d had since they were kids, the way she bit the inside of her lower lip when she was trying not to cry. “Eva?”
The woman’s head snapped up, her dark eyes widening, the whiskey glass halfway to her lips. For a long second, no one moved. The only sound in the bar was the low jazz playing from the jukebox in the corner, the rain tapping against the window. “Rory,” Eva breathed, her voice cracking . She set the glass down so hard the whiskey sloshed over the rim, staining the bar’s worn oak top. Silas stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron, giving them space, his eyes flicking between the two of them before he drifted to the other end of the bar to serve a couple who’d just sat down, leaving them to unpack three years of unspoken mess alone.
Rory stood up so fast her stool scraped the floor, her knees knocking against the bar as she walked around it, her bare socks slipping a little on the damp floor. She didn’t know what to do first—hug her or yell at her—so she just stood there, three years of anger and fear and loneliness bubbling up in her throat, until she finally said, “I thought you were dead. I waited for you. You said you’d meet me in London in three days. I waited three months.”
Eva’s face crumpled. She nodded, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, the scar on her jaw stretching when she frowned. “I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t. I couldn’t come, Rory, I swear, if I’d had any choice—”
“What choice?” Rory said, her voice sharp, the anger she’d carried for three years spilling over. “You called me at 2 a.m., screaming that I had to pack a bag and get out of Cardiff that night, that Evan was going to hurt me, that you’d meet me at Paddington with a key to the flat. I got on the first train. I sat in that train station for 12 hours waiting for you. I slept on a bench for a week before I found this place, before I got the delivery job. You left me alone. I thought he’d killed you. I thought you’d just… abandoned me.”
She sat down in the nearest booth, her legs giving out, and Eva followed, sliding across the vinyl seat, the plastic creaking under their weight . She pulled her sleeve up, her left palm outstretched across the table, and there it was: the small, thin scar on the base of her palm, from the same oak branch that had left Rory’s crescent, the one she’d gotten trying to catch Rory when she fell out of the tree all those years ago.
“I didn’t abandon you,” Eva said, her voice breaking . “Evan found me in Birmingham. I’d run there after I called you, I thought if I led him away from you, he’d never find you in London. He followed me. He broke into my flat, he put his fist through the wall next to my head, he said if I told anyone what he’d done, if I so much as texted you, he’d kill both of us. I couldn’t risk that. I couldn’t lead him to you. I moved every three months. I got a new phone, a new name, I didn’t dare reach out. I thought if I stayed gone, you’d be safe.”
Rory stared at the scar on Eva’s palm, the two marks lining up across the table, just like they had when they were 10 years old, pressing their scrapes together and swearing they’d be family forever, that no one would ever come between them. She’d spent three years angry, three years thinking Eva had left her to fend for herself, that the only person she’d ever trusted completely had bailed when things got hard, and all the while Eva had been running too, scared for both of them. The weight of those years pressed down on her, the stupid, wasted time they could have had, leaning on each other instead of carrying the fear alone.
“He’s in prison now,” Rory said, her voice quiet . “Silas had contacts. He found out Evan had assaulted three other women before me. We gave the police all the evidence we had. He went away for eight years, six months ago. I’ve been safe for longer than I was ever in danger, and I spent all that time hating you.”
Eva sobbed, wiping at her face, and Rory reached across the table, taking her hand, their scars pressing together just like they used to. The knot in her throat that she’d carried since she left Cardiff finally loosened, the sharp edge of her loneliness blunting for the first time in as long as she could remember. She thought of the girl she’d been back in Cardiff, the pre-law student who’d done everything her parents asked, who’d fallen for a man who’d worn the mask of perfect boyfriend so well no one but Eva had seen what was underneath, and the girl she was now, the delivery driver who lived above a spy’s bar, who’d learned to rely on herself first. Eva had changed too, the loud, fearless girl who’d once punched a boy who made fun of Rory’s blue eyes gone soft around the edges, marked by the same fear that had marked Rory. Time had carved pieces out of both of them, but the core of their friendship was still there, unbroken.
“I’m in Edinburgh now,” Eva said, after a few minutes, when her sobs had slowed to hiccups. “I work in a care home. I was coming down to visit my sister, and I saw this bar’s sign, and I just… I needed to stop. I didn’t even know you were here. I never thought I’d run into you.” She laughed, wet and shaky . “I always thought if I saw you again, you’d be a big lawyer, like your dad always wanted. Not living in London above a bar.”
Rory snorted, glancing over at Silas, who was leaning against the back wall, his arms crossed, watching a drunk guy stumble out the front door. “I gave up on pre-law the day I left Cardiff. Couldn’t stomach the idea of defending people like Evan, couldn’t stand being in the same city that reminded me of him. This works. It’s quiet. I don’t have to pretend to be anyone I’m not.” She paused, twisting the hem of her sweater. “You can stay with me, if you want. The flat above the bar is small, but there’s a couch. I’m not letting you run again. Not now that we found each other.”
Across the bar, Silas’s gaze drifted to the Prague map, the one that had hung on his wall for 20 years, the one that reminded him of the partner he’d left behind in that botched operation, the regret that had followed him into retirement. He’d spent decades thinking you had to carry your burdens alone to keep the people you loved safe, just like Eva had, just like Rory almost had. He smiled a little, turning back to wiping his glasses, as the rain slowed outside, the green neon sign casting a soft glow over the two women in the booth. Some people got a second chance to fix the mistakes time had driven between them. He was glad these two had theirs.