Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2HPFX8Z57656BFNG534D4S

The green neon hummed above the entrance, bleeding its light into the wet pavement. Inside, the bar held its usual quiet—the clink of a glass against oak, the low murmur of a conversation near the back, the smell of old wood and spilled ale. Rory stood behind the counter, drying a pint glass with a cloth that had seen better days. The rag was grey and thin, but she worked it methodically, watching the glass go clear under the yellow light. The door swung open with a soft groan. A man stepped in, shaking rain from the shoulders of a charcoal overcoat. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of haircut that cost more than Rory’s weekly takeaway budget. He wiped a hand across his jaw, scanning the room with the easy confidence of someone who knew he belonged in places like this. Then his eyes found her. They stopped. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. A name slipped out, tentative, like he wasn't sure if he had the right to say it anymore. "Rory?" The glass in her hand caught the light. She set it down slow. "Liam." Five years. That was how long since she’d seen him. Five years since they’d sat in the back of a Cardiff pub, him with a law textbook open, her with a lipstick stain on a napkin she’d been using to map out escape routes from Evan’s flat. She remembered the way Liam had laughed then—too loud, too easy, filling the room like he owned it. This laugh was different. Shorter. Measured. "Christ, I thought that was you." He crossed the floor, bypassing the empty stools, and stopped a few feet short of the bar. His hands went into his coat pockets. "You look… different." "Different how?" He tilted his head, a gesture she remembered—assessing, lawyerly. "You cut your hair." She touched the black ends at her collarbone. "Yeah. Two years ago." "Suits you." "Thanks." Silence hung between them, filled by the distant hiss of a coffee machine from the back. Rory picked up another glass, found a smudge, and worked it with the cloth. "You work here now?" "I live upstairs. Help out Silas when he needs it." Liam glanced around, taking in the maps on the walls, the faded black-and-white photographs of men in suits and women with cigarettes. "Nice place. Bit different from the union bar." "Bit different from Cardiff." "Yeah." He pulled out a stool anyway, settling onto it with a sigh that spoke of a long day. "I was in the area for a case. Thought I'd grab a drink before the train." Rory reached for a bottle of his old favourite—a single malt she’d stocked because Silas liked it too. She poured a measure into a tumbler and slid it across the wood. He stared at it. "You remembered." "You always ordered it when you were trying to impress someone." "I was trying to impress everyone." He picked up the glass, swirled it once, and took a sip. A flicker of the old smile crossed his face before it settled back into something more guarded. "You were the only one who never bought the act." She didn't answer. She poured herself a tonic water, lime wedge pinched between her fingers, and leaned against the back counter. "How's the barrister life?" "Busy. Good. Partner track next year, if I don't screw it up." He said it like a rehearsed line, polished and worn. "Sophie and I bought a flat in Clapham. Three bedrooms, garden. Her mother hates the neighbourhood, but Sophie loves the bay window." Rory nodded. She’d never met Sophie. She’d heard about her through mutual friends—a solicitor from a good family, blonde, tennis player, exactly the kind of woman Liam’s mother had always wanted for him. "Good," she said. "That’s good." Liam set the glass down, turning it between his fingers. The gesture was familiar, but the rest of him wasn't. The softness had gone from his jaw. His shoulders were squared in a way that made him look armour-plated. "I heard about Evan," he said quietly. Rory’s hand stilled on the tonic bottle. "From who?" "Eva. She called me after you left. Wanted to know if I'd heard from you." "Eva talks too much." "She was worried. We all were." Rory looked at him then—really looked. The same crow’s feet at his eyes, the same way he bit his lower lip when he was holding something back. But there was a new line between his brows, etched deep, and the easy laughter that used to bubble under his skin had been replaced by something heavier. "You never called," he said. "No." "Why?" She took a long sip of her tonic, letting the cold burn her throat. "Because I didn't want to be the girl who needed saving. And you were the boy who always tried to save people." Liam flinched. It was small, barely a twitch, but she caught it. "That's not fair." "Maybe not. But it's true." He drained the rest of his whisky in one swallow. "I would have helped you. I would have—" "Gotten me a lawyer. Found me a shelter. Told me what to do with the rest of my life." She set her glass down. "I didn't need a plan, Liam. I needed someone to sit with me in the dark." The bar fell quiet again. A patron at the far end laughed, a sudden burst that made them both blink. Liam ran a hand through his hair—still the same gesture, still the same way he did it when he was lost. "I didn't know you were in that much pain." "You asked me once, after that pub night. You asked if I was okay. I said fine. You believed me." "I always believed you. You were the strongest person I knew." "I was the best liar you knew." He looked at his empty glass, then back at her. Something shifted in his eyes—not anger, not sadness, but a kind of recognition. The weight of time settling between them like dust. "I missed you," he said. "I missed you too." Neither of them said anything more for a long moment. The rain picked up outside, drumming against the window. The green neon cast a strange glow on Liam’s face, making him look older than he was. "You changed your name," he said. "Rory. I heard you go by that now." "Aurora was my mother's choice. Rory is mine." "It suits you." He smiled, but it was the small one—the one he used when he was sad. "I always thought Aurora sounded like a princess in a tower. Rory sounds like someone who climbs out the window." She almost laughed. Almost. "Something like that." He stood, leaving a twenty on the counter. "Keep the change. And… if you ever want to talk. For real. Not about the weather or the case. I'm still around." She picked up the note, folded it, and tucked it into the tip jar. "You know where to find me." He paused at the door, hand on the handle. The rain streaked the glass, blurring the world outside. "Rory." "Yeah?" "For what it's worth… I'm sorry." She didn't answer. She watched him push the door open, watched the cold air rush in and swirl around the warmth of the bar, and watched him disappear into the London dark. The green neon flickered once, twice, then held steady. Rory picked up his empty glass, ran the cloth around its rim, and set it in the rack. The weight of what they'd said—what they hadn't said—settled in her chest like stones. She poured herself a proper whisky this time, leaned against the counter, and let the silence hold her.