AI The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered once, twice, before settling into its steady glow as Rory pushed through the heavy wooden door. The familiar scent of aged whiskey and polished mahogany wrapped around her, a comfort she hadn’t realized she’d missed until that moment. The bar was quiet tonight—just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, the low hum of conversation barely rising above the soft jazz playing from the speakers. Silas was behind the counter, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the dim light as he polished a glass with methodical precision. He glanced up, his hazel eyes sharp as ever, and gave her a nod. No words needed. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, where the shadows pooled thickest, and set her delivery bag down with a sigh.
The door opened again, and a gust of cold October air swept through the room. Rory didn’t look up at first—she was too busy rubbing the old ache in her left wrist, the crescent-shaped scar there a ghost from a childhood tumble she barely remembered. But then she heard it: the unmistakable creak of the floorboard just inside the entrance, the one that had always groaned underfoot no matter how many times Silas had tried to fix it. Her fingers stilled.
She knew that pause . Knew the way someone might hesitate just a second too long, as if bracing themselves .
Then she heard his voice, low and rougher than she remembered, as he greeted Silas. “Evening, Si. Quiet night.”
Rory’s breath hitched. She didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. Not yet.
Silas’ voice was smooth, unreadable . “Evan. Haven’t seen you in… what, three years?”
Evan. The name settled in her stomach like a stone. She pressed her palms flat against the bar, as if the wood could steady her.
“Something like that,” Evan said. His footsteps were slow, deliberate. She could picture him—tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of man who moved like he owned the space he was in. Once, she’d found that confidence intoxicating. Now, it just made her skin prickle.
She should leave. Slip out the back, up the stairs to her flat, and pretend she’d never heard him. But her body refused to obey. Instead, she lifted her chin, forced her shoulders to relax, and reached for her glass of water as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Evan stopped a few stools down from her. She could see him in her peripheral vision—dark hair, a little longer than he’d worn it before, the stubble on his jaw more salt than pepper now. He was older. They both were.
Silas slid a whiskey toward him without a word. Evan caught it, took a sip, then set it down with a quiet exhale. “You’ve got a new bartender?”
“No,” Silas said, his voice dry . “That’s just Rory.”
Evan went very still. Rory could feel the weight of his gaze on her profile, like a physical touch. She turned her head, just slightly , and met his eyes.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
He looked… different. Not just the years, though those were there—the lines around his mouth, the weariness in his dark eyes. But there was something else, something harder to place. A tension in his jaw, a carefulness in the way he held himself, as if he were a man who had learned, the hard way, not to take up too much space.
“Rory,” he said, her name a quiet test on his lips.
She lifted her glass in a mock toast. “Evan.”
Silas, ever the observer, melted away to the other end of the bar, giving them the illusion of privacy. The jazz track shifted to something slower, melancholic. The kind of music that made the air feel heavier.
Evan moved a stool closer, but not too close. Respecting the distance. Or maybe just unsure if he was allowed to bridge it. “I didn’t know you were back in London.”
“I’ve been here a while.” She took a sip of her water, the glass cool against her fingers. “Since Cardiff.”
His brow furrowed . “You left uni?”
She almost laughed. Of course he’d assume she’d stayed. Of course he’d think she’d followed the path they’d all expected—her father’s daughter, the barrister-in-training. “Pre-Law wasn’t for me.”
“But you were good at it.”
“Being good at something doesn’t mean it’s what you’re meant to do.” She traced the rim of her glass with her thumb. “You, of all people, should know that.”
His jaw tightened. She’d hit a nerve. Good.
He took another sip of his whiskey, then set the glass down with a sharp click. “I looked for you, you know. After… after everything.”
Rory’s fingers curled around the glass. “Did you?”
“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “I went to your flat. Your parents’ house. No one would tell me where you’d gone.”
“Maybe they knew me better than you did.”
Evan flinched. Just a little. Just enough. She should’ve felt satisfied, but the victory was hollow.
Silas’ bar had always been a place of quiet truths, of things left unsaid but understood. The walls, lined with yellowed maps and black-and-white photos of places she’d never been, seemed to lean in, listening.
Evan’s gaze dropped to her wrist, to the scar there. He reached out, as if to touch it, then pulled his hand back. “You still have that.”
“Some things don’t fade.” She pulled her sleeve down, covering it. “No matter how much time passes.”
He exhaled sharply , running a hand through his hair. “Rory, I—”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand. “Don’t apologize. Not here. Not now.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too late.”
The words hung between them, sharp and final. Evan looked away, his throat working as he swallowed. The silence stretched, thick with all the things they weren’t saying . The apologies that would never be enough. The anger that had long since cooled into something sadder, something quieter.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “I’m not the same person I was then.”
She studied him—the new lines on his face, the way his shoulders carried the weight of something she couldn’t name. Maybe he wasn’t. But neither was she.
“Neither am I.”
He nodded, as if that were answer enough. As if it explained everything. Maybe it did.
Silas reappeared, breaking the tension . “You two need anything?”
Evan shook his head. Rory just stared at her glass.
Silas lingered for a second, his hazel eyes flicking between them, then nodded and moved away again. The old spymaster knew better than to interfere.
Evan cleared his throat. “What are you doing now? For work, I mean.”
She almost laughed. Of all the questions he could’ve asked, that was the one he chose? “I deliver food. For Yu-Fei’s place.”
“That’s…” He trailed off, as if realizing how ridiculous it sounded to judge her for it . “That’s not what I expected.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t imagine it is.”
He rubbed his temple, as if warding off a headache . “I always thought you’d end up in a courtroom. Arguing cases. Making your father proud.”
Rory’s chest tightened. “My father’s pride isn’t the measure of my life, Evan.”
“No,” he said quickly . “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I always admired how driven you were. How sure.”
She wanted to tell him that certainty was a luxury she couldn’t afford anymore. That the girl he’d known—the one who’d believed in grand plans and forever—had died the night she’d packed a bag and fled Cardiff without a word. But the words stuck in her throat.
Instead, she said, “And what about you? Still in finance?”
He hesitated. “No. Not anymore.”
She raised an eyebrow .
“I left the firm,” he said. “After… after you left, I couldn’t—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I got into woodworking. Furniture, mostly. Custom pieces.”
Rory blinked. That was so far from the Evan she’d known—the man in the tailored suits, the one who’d spoken about mergers and acquisitions like they were poetry—that she almost didn’t recognize him. “That’s… unexpected.”
He gave a small, humorless smile. “Yeah. Well. Life’s full of surprises.”
She wanted to ask him why. Why he’d left the career he’d once loved, why he’d changed so much. But the question felt too intimate, too much like opening a door she wasn’t sure she wanted to walk through.
Outside, the wind rattled the windows, and the neon sign flickered again, casting the bar in a brief, eerie darkness before snapping back to life. Rory shivered, though she wasn’t cold.
Evan noticed. “You okay?”
“Fine.” She forced a smile. “Just tired.”
He nodded, but his eyes were sad. “I should go.”
She should’ve felt relieved . But as he stood, as he tossed a few bills onto the bar for his drink, she realized she didn’t want him to. Not yet.
“Evan.”
He paused, looking back at her.
“Why’d you come in here tonight?”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly : “I saw the sign. Remembered you used to talk about this place. Thought… I don’t know. Thought I might find you here.”
Rory’s throat tightened. “And now that you have?”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at her, his dark eyes full of things she didn’t want to name. Regret. Longing. A question she wasn’t ready to answer.
Silas’ voice cut through the tension , gruff but gentle. “Close in ten, Rory. You want me to save you a nightcap?”
She tore her gaze away from Evan, grateful for the interruption. “Yeah. Thanks, Si.”
Evan took the hint. He gave her one last, lingering look , then turned and walked toward the door. She watched him go, the slight hitch in his step—was that new?—as he pushed through the exit and disappeared into the London night.
The door swung shut behind him, and the bar felt emptier than it had before he’d arrived.
Silas slid a glass of amber liquid toward her. “On the house.”
She wrapped her fingers around it, the warmth seeping into her skin. “You always know.”
“Part of the job.” He wiped down the counter, his movements slow, deliberate. “He’s different.”
“So am I.”
Silas didn’t argue. He just nodded, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.
Rory took a sip of her drink, the whiskey burning its way down her throat. Outside, the neon sign flickered one last time, then held steady.
She thought about Evan’s face—the way the years had carved into him, the way his eyes had held hers, as if he were trying to memorize her all over again. She thought about the man he’d been, and the man he was now, and wondered if time had changed them both in ways that could never be undone.
Then she set her glass down, stood, and walked toward the stairs that led to her flat. The past was a ghost, and ghosts were best left in the dark.