AI The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered once, twice, as Rory ducked under the awning, 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 skin, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The scent of aged whiskey and polished wood wrapped around her like an old, familiar coat.
The bar was quiet for a Thursday—just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, the low hum of conversation barely rising above the crackle of the fireplace. Silas stood behind the counter, polishing a glass with the methodical precision of a man who had spent a lifetime waiting. His hazel eyes flicked up, caught hers, and he gave a small, knowing nod. No words needed. She’d been coming here long enough that her usual seat at the far end of the bar was already reserved, a half-empty glass of amber liquid waiting for her.
She slid onto the stool, the wood smooth under her fingers, and reached for the drink. The first sip burned, warm and sharp, and she exhaled slowly , letting the heat settle in her chest. The bar’s walls were lined with yellowed maps and black-and-white photographs of places she’d never been—Prague, Berlin, Istanbul—each one a silent testament to Silas’s past. She traced the edge of the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, an old habit when her thoughts turned restless.
The door opened again, and a gust of wind sent a flurry of raindrops skittering across the floor. Rory didn’t look up. Not at first. But then she heard it—the faint, familiar cadence of a voice she hadn’t heard in years.
“—told him, if he’s going to keep the bloody thing running, he ought to fix the sign.”
Her fingers tightened around the glass. That voice. Deep, rough around the edges, the kind of voice that carried the weight of too many late nights and bad decisions. She knew it. Knew him.
And then he was there, standing in the doorway, shaking water from his dark coat, and time did that cruel thing it always did—collapsed in on itself. Daniel. Daniel Mercer. Her oldest friend. The one who’d sworn they’d never lose touch.
But they had.
He was different. Not just older—though the years had etched lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there before—but harder. His shoulders were broader, his posture rigid, like he was bracing against something. His hair, once perpetually tousled, was cropped short, military-short, and his jaw was shadowed with stubble. He looked like a man who’d seen things. Done things.
And then he turned, and his gaze landed on her.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air between them thickened, charged with all the years and all the words unsaid. His eyes—still that same dark brown, but sharper now, warier—widened just a fraction.
“Rory?”
The sound of her name on his lips was like a key turning in a lock she’d thought was rusted shut. She swallowed, forced a smile. “Mercer. You look like hell.”
He barked out a laugh, short and disbelieving, and then he was moving toward her, his boots thudding against the floor. The bar seemed to shrink around them, the other patrons fading into the background. He stopped a foot away, as if unsure whether to close the distance. Up close, she could see the faint scar along his jawline, the way his left hand flexed at his side, like he was resisting the urge to reach for her.
“Christ,” he said, voice rough . “I thought I was imagining things.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “What, you don’t believe in ghosts?”
His mouth quirked, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re no ghost. Though I’ll admit, I’ve thought about you enough to wonder.”
The words hung between them, heavy with implication . She looked away, suddenly fascinated by the swirl of whiskey in her glass. “What brings you to London?”
“Work.” A beat. “And you?”
She shrugged. “Same.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so bitter. “Still running, then.”
The words stung, not because they were untrue, but because he knew. Of course he knew. Daniel had been there when she’d packed her bags, when she’d sworn she’d never go back to Cardiff, never look back at all. He’d been the one to drive her to the train station, his hand gripping hers a little too tight, his voice low. *You call me. Any time. Doesn’t matter what.*
She hadn’t.
“Some of us don’t have the luxury of staying in one place,” she said lightly, though the words tasted like ash .
His jaw tightened. “And some of us don’t have the luxury of leaving.”
She wanted to ask. Wanted to demand where he’d been, why he’d let the years stretch between them like an unbridgeable chasm. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she took another sip of her drink, the liquor burning less now, familiar .
Silas chose that moment to appear, his limp barely noticeable as he moved with quiet efficiency. He set a fresh glass in front of Daniel without a word, his hazel eyes flicking between them, assessing. Silas missed nothing.
Daniel glanced at the older man, then back at Rory. “You’re still with him, then?”
“With him?” She raised an eyebrow . “Silas is my landlord.”
Daniel’s gaze flicked to Silas, then back to her, disbelief etched into his features. “You’re living above a bar?”
She bristled. “It’s a flat. A perfectly good one.”
“Right.” He took a long pull of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed. “And what about—” He cut himself off, shook his head.
“What about what?”
“Nothing.” He set the glass down too hard, the liquid sloshing over the rim. “It’s just… you were supposed to be a barrister, Rory. Or a judge. Or—” He gestured vaguely, as if the future they’d once imagined for her was too vast to contain in words .
She felt the old, familiar prickle of defensiveness. “Plans change.”
“Do they?” His voice was quiet, almost dangerous. “Or do we just get scared and pretend they do?”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. She opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say? That he was wrong? That she hadn’t spent years telling herself the same thing? She looked down at her hands, at the scar on her wrist, a relic from a childhood fall that suddenly felt like a metaphor for something larger. A misstep. A stumble. A life that had veered off course.
“You don’t get to judge me, Daniel,” she said finally, her voice low . “Not after you disappeared.”
He flinched, just slightly , but she saw it. “I didn’t disappear. You left.”
“And you didn’t follow.”
Silence. The kind that settled into the bones, heavy and unyielding. The fire popped in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks. Somewhere in the back, a door creaked—probably the hidden room behind the bookshelf, though Rory had never been inside. Silas’s domain. His secrets.
Daniel rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted. “I had my reasons.”
“So did I.”
He stared at her, and for a moment, she saw the boy she’d once known—the one who’d climbed trees with her in her father’s garden, who’d snuck her cigarettes behind the school gym, who’d sworn they’d always be there for each other. But then he blinked, and the man was back. The stranger.
“Are you happy?” he asked abruptly.
The question caught her off guard. She laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “What kind of question is that?”
“The kind that matters.”
She wanted to lie. To say yes, of course, she was happy . She had a job, a roof over her head, friends who cared about her. But the word stuck in her throat. Because happiness wasn’t just about survival. It wasn’t just about getting through the day. And she hadn’t felt truly , deeply happy in a long time.
Daniel’s gaze dropped to her wrist, to the scar she’d been absently tracing . “You still do that.”
She pulled her hand away, tucking it under her thigh. “Old habits.”
He nodded, like that explained everything. Like it explained the years, the distance, the way they were both pretending this was just a casual meeting between old friends. But it wasn’t. It was a reckoning.
Silas appeared again, this time with a bottle, topping off their glasses without a word. His signet ring glinted under the dim light as he set the bottle down. He didn’t linger, but Rory felt his presence like a weight , a reminder that some things were better left unsaid.
Daniel swirled his drink, watching the ice clink against the glass. “I’m in town for a week. Maybe we could—” He hesitated. “Catch up properly.”
She should say no. It would be easier that way. Cleaner. But the thought of walking away from him again, of letting the years stretch even further, made her chest ache.
“Maybe,” she said.
He nodded, like that was enough. Like it was a promise.
Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, the streets glistening under the flickering glow of the neon sign. Rory stared into her glass, the amber liquid catching the light, turning it into something golden. Something precious.
Daniel finished his drink, set the glass down. “I should go.”
She didn’t stop him. But as he turned to leave, she found herself speaking, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I missed you.”
He froze, his back to her. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly , he turned. His eyes were bright, his expression raw in a way she hadn’t seen in years. “I missed you too, Rory.”
And then he was gone , the door swinging shut behind him, leaving her alone with the ghost of what they’d once been and the weight of what they might still become.