AI The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered once, twice, as Rory ducked beneath it, shaking rain from her jacket. The downpour had come out of nowhere, turning Soho’s streets into a slick, shimmering maze. She wiped her palms on her jeans, the damp denim clinging to her thighs, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The scent of aged whiskey and polished oak wrapped around her like an old, familiar coat.
The bar was quiet tonight—just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, the low hum of conversation swallowed by the crackling fireplace in the corner. Silas stood behind the counter, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate strokes. His hazel eyes flicked up as she entered, and he gave her a small nod, the kind that said he’d been expecting her .
Rory slid onto a stool near the end of the bar, far enough from the others to feel like she had the place to herself. “Bourbon. Neat.”
Silas set the glass down without a word, the amber liquid catching the dim light. She wrapped her fingers around it, the warmth seeping into her skin. The first sip burned, but it was a good burn, the kind that settled in her chest and loosened the knot of tension between her shoulders.
She was halfway through her drink when the door opened again. A gust of wind sent a flurry of raindrops skittering across the floor, and a man stepped inside, pausing to shake the water from his coat. Rory didn’t look up at first—another patron, another stranger. But then she heard the soft *thud * of a cane against the wood, the slight, uneven rhythm of a limp.
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
She knew that limp.
The man moved toward the bar, his grey-streaked auburn hair damp at the temples, his neatly trimmed beard flecked with raindrops. He was older, of course—fifteen years had passed, after all—but it wasn’t just the years that had changed him. It was the way he carried himself now, the quiet authority in the set of his shoulders, the way his hazel eyes scanned the room with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime assessing threats.
Silas.
Not the Silas she’d known, though. That Silas had been all sharp edges and restless energy, a man who couldn’t sit still, who’d always been halfway out the door before the conversation was over. This Silas moved like a man who had learned patience the hard way.
He took the stool two seats down from her , nodding to the bartender—*another * Silas, she realized with a jolt, the one who owned the place. “Whiskey. The good stuff.”
Rory’s pulse thrummed in her throat. She should say something. She *should *. But the words stuck, tangled in the past, in the last time she’d seen him, in the way he’d looked at her with something like pity before walking away .
The bartender Silas slid the drink across the counter, and the other Silas—*her * Silas—caught it with a murmured thanks. His signet ring glinted under the low light as he lifted the glass to his lips.
Rory couldn’t take it anymore. She turned, just slightly, enough to catch his profile. “You always did have a taste for the expensive stuff.”
He froze. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he set the glass down and turned to face her . His eyes widened—just a fraction—but she saw the recognition there, the flicker of something deeper, something he tried to school into neutrality. “Rory.”
Her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. No one had called her that in years. Not since she’d left Cardiff, not since she’d reinvented herself as Aurora, as Laila, as anyone but the girl who’d once followed him around like a shadow, desperate for his approval.
“It’s been a while,” she said, forcing her voice to stay light.
“Fifteen years, give or take.” He took a sip of his drink, watching her over the rim of the glass. “You look… different.”
She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You mean I don’t look like a scared kid anymore?”
His jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How *did * you mean it?”
Silas exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. “You’ve got that look. The one people get when they’ve seen too much.”
Rory swirled her bourbon, watching the liquid cling to the sides of the glass. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.”
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, well. Time does that to a man.”
She studied him—the lines around his eyes, the silver threading through his beard, the way his left leg bore just a little more weight than the right. “Prague,” she said softly .
His fingers twitched toward his knee, as if he could still feel the old injury. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me.”
“Hard not to, when your face was plastered all over the news for a while.” She took another sip, the bourbon warming her from the inside out. “MI6’s golden boy, brought down by a bullet and a bad decision.”
His expression darkened. “It wasn’t that simple.”
“It never is.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with all the things they weren’t saying . The fire popped in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Rory traced the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist with her thumb, a habit she’d never quite shaken.
“What are you doing in London?” he asked finally.
“Living.” She shrugged. “Working. Trying to forget.”
“Forget what?”
She met his gaze, held it. “The same things you are, probably.”
He looked away first, his jaw working. “I opened this place after I retired. Needed something to do with my hands.”
“And the rest of you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You always were a terrible liar, Silas.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the bar. “This isn’t just a bar. It’s a front. Just like the old days.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Some habits die hard.”
“And some people never really leave the game.”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he swirled his whiskey, the ice clinking softly . “What about you? Last I heard, you were studying law.”
Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “Plans change.”
“Evan?”
The name hit her like a punch to the gut. She flinched, just slightly , but Silas noticed. He always noticed.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Evan.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be. It’s over now.”
“But not forgotten.”
“No.” She drained the rest of her bourbon, the burn in her throat sharp and grounding. “Not forgotten.”
Silas flagged down the bartender for another round. When the fresh drinks arrived, he slid one toward her without a word. She accepted it, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment. A spark, a memory.
“You ever think about Cardiff?” he asked.
“Every damn day.” She took a sip, letting the liquor settle her nerves. “My dad still practices law there. My mum’s retired now, though. Teaches part-time at the community center.”
“You talk to them?”
“Not as much as I should .”
He nodded, as if he understood. Maybe he did . “Your father always did have high hopes for you.”
“And I always did have a knack for disappointing him.”
Silas’s lips quirked, just a little. “You were the smartest kid I ever met, Rory. Still are, probably.”
She snorted. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, old man.”
“Who says I’m trying to get anywhere?”
She studied him—the way his eyes flickered toward the door every few seconds, the way his hand rested near his pocket, where she knew he kept a knife. Some things never changed.
“You’re still looking for a fight,” she said.
“And you’re still running from one.”
The words hung between them, heavy and true. Rory looked down at her drink, the amber liquid catching the light. “Maybe.”
Silas sighed, rubbing his temple. “You ever think about coming back? To the work, I mean.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’re joking.”
“You’ve got the skills. The instincts.”
“And the scars to prove it.” She held up her wrist, the crescent-shaped mark pale against her skin. “I’m done with that life, Silas. I just want…” She trailed off, searching for the words. “I just want to be normal for a while.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly : “You were never normal, Rory.”
She met his gaze, and for the first time in years, she let herself really *see * him—the man who’d taught her how to pick a lock, how to spot a tail, how to survive in a world that wanted to chew her up and spit her out. The man who’d also taught her that trust was a liability.
“No,” she agreed. “I wasn’t.”
The fire crackled, the rain pattered against the windows, and for a little while, it was like no time had passed at all. But then Silas’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, his expression shifting into something professional, something distant.
“Duty calls,” he murmured.
Rory nodded, already feeling the weight of the moment slipping away. “Yeah. I figured.”
He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else. But the moment passed. He tossed a few bills onto the bar, more than enough to cover both their drinks. “It was good seeing you, Rory.”
She watched him stand, watched him adjust his coat, watched him take one last look at her before turning toward the door. “You too, Silas.”
He paused at the threshold, his hand on the frame. “If you ever change your mind… you know where to find me.”
She didn’t answer. She just watched him walk out into the rain, his limp more pronounced now, as if the weight of the years had settled into his bones.
The door swung shut behind him, and just like that, he was gone .
Rory stared at her empty glass, the ice long since melted. The bartender Silas gave her a knowing look, but she ignored him. She was too busy thinking about the past, about the choices that had led her here, about the man who’d just walked out of her life for the second time.
She signaled for another drink.
Some habits, it seemed, died harder than others.