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, reflective mess. She wiped her palms on her jeans, the damp denim clinging unpleasantly, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The familiar scent of aged whiskey and polished wood wrapped around her like an old, well-worn coat.
The bar was quiet tonight—just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, the low hum of conversation barely rising above the crackle of the vinyl spinning in the corner. Silas was behind the counter, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate strokes, his hazel eyes flicking up as the door swung shut behind her. He gave her a nod, the kind that said he’d been expecting her, though she hadn’t planned on coming in until the rain had driven her inside.
Rory slid onto a stool near the end of the bar, far enough from the others to feel like she had her own corner of the world. Silas set the glass down and reached for a bottle of her usual without a word. She watched the amber liquid swirl into the tumbler, the ice clinking softly . The first sip burned all the way down, warm and sharp, and she exhaled, letting the tension in her shoulders ease just a fraction.
Then the door opened again.
A gust of wind sent a scatter of raindrops skittering across the floorboards, and Rory didn’t look up at first. Not until she heard the hesitation in the footsteps , the way they paused just inside the threshold like the man wasn’t sure he was in the right place. She glanced over, and the glass slipped in her fingers.
Evan.
Not Evan, not really —no, this man was broader, his once-boyish face now lined with years she hadn’t seen. His dark hair was threaded with silver at the temples, and his jaw had a hardness to it that hadn’t been there before. But the eyes—those were the same. Sharp, assessing, the kind of green that had once made her stomach flip. Now they just made her grip the glass tighter.
He hadn’t seen her yet. He was scanning the room, his posture rigid, like he was bracing for something. Rory ducked her head, suddenly hyperaware of the scar on her wrist, the old habit of hiding it beneath her sleeve. She shouldn’t have come in. She should’ve gone straight up to her flat, should’ve—
“Rory?”
His voice was deeper now, rougher, but unmistakable. She closed her eyes for a second, then forced herself to turn. His expression was a mix of shock and something else—disbelief, maybe. Or guilt.
“Evan,” she said, and the name tasted like ash .
He took a step forward, then stopped, as if remembering the last time they’d been in the same room . The air between them thickened, heavy with all the things neither of them had ever said. Silas, ever perceptive, had gone still behind the bar, his gaze flicking between them. Rory could feel the weight of his attention, the unspoken question.
Evan broke the silence first. “I didn’t know you were in London.”
“Yeah, well.” She took another sip, the whiskey doing little to steady her. “People change.”
He flinched, just slightly, and she wondered if he heard the edge in her voice. Of course he did. He’d always been good at reading her, even when she didn’t want to be read.
“Can I sit?” he asked.
Rory hesitated. Part of her wanted to tell him no, to stand up and walk out the back door, disappear into the rain before this could go any further. But another part—the stupid, stubborn part—wanted to know. Wanted to see what he’d say after all this time.
She shrugged. “Free country.”
He moved slowly, like he was afraid she’d bolt if he made any sudden movements. When he settled onto the stool beside her, she caught the scent of him—leather and something faintly metallic, like gun oil. Not the cologne he used to wear. Not the boy she’d known.
Silas slid a glass toward Evan without a word, his expression unreadable . Evan nodded in thanks, then turned back to Rory. “How long have you been here?”
“A few years.” She traced the rim of her glass with a finger. “Since I left Cardiff.”
His jaw tightened. “I heard about that. About him.”
Rory’s fingers stilled. Of course he had. Evan had always had a way of knowing things he shouldn’t. “Then you know why I left.”
“I know what he did.” His voice was low, controlled. “I should’ve—”
“Don’t.” She cut him off before he could finish. She didn’t want his apologies. Not now, not after everything. “You weren’t there. None of you were.”
He exhaled sharply , running a hand through his hair. The silver at his temples caught the dim light, and she wondered what had put it there. Stress? Time? Regret? “I looked for you, you know. After I got back.”
Rory’s chest tightened. “Back from where?”
“Here and there.” He was being vague, deliberate. “Took a job overseas for a while.”
She studied him—the way his eyes kept flicking to the door, the way his shoulders were squared like he was ready for a fight. “What kind of job?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “The kind that pays well and asks questions later.”
Rory let out a humorless laugh. “So you became a mercenary.”
“Private security,” he corrected, but the distinction didn’t make her feel any better.
She swirled her drink, watching the ice melt. “Funny. I always figured you’d end up in an office somewhere, wearing a suit and pretending to like it.”
He smirked, but there was no warmth in it. “And I figured you’d be a barrister by now, following in your dad’s footsteps .”
The words stung more than she expected. She’d spent years trying to outrun that expectation, the weight of her father’s disappointment pressing down on her like a stone. “Plans change.”
“Yeah.” His gaze dropped to her wrist, to the scar peeking out from beneath her sleeve. She tugged the fabric down instinctively, but he’d already seen it. “Some more than others.”
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Rory could feel Silas’ eyes on them, could practically hear the gears turning in his head. She wondered if he’d intervene if things got ugly. Probably. Silas had a way of knowing when to step in.
“Why are you here, Evan?” she asked finally.
He took a long pull of his drink, then set the glass down with a sigh. “I was in town for a job. Figured I’d stop by the old haunts, see if anyone was still around.”
“And?”
“And most of them aren’t.” He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the bar. “Funny how that works.”
Rory watched him for a long moment. The years had changed him, hardened him, but there was still something familiar in the way he held himself, in the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the wood. “You ever think about it?” she asked quietly. “About how things might’ve been different?”
Evan’s gaze snapped to hers, sharp and searching. “Every damn day.”
The honesty in his voice caught her off guard. She’d expected deflection, a joke, anything but the raw edge in his words. She looked away, her throat tight. “You shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.” She gestured between them. “This—us—it’s over. Has been for a long time.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t regret it.”
Rory’s fingers curled into fists. “Regret what, exactly? Leaving? Or the way you did it?”
He flinched, and for a second, she saw the boy she’d known—the one who’d laughed too loud and loved too hard and left without a word. But then he was gone , replaced by the man sitting beside her, the one with shadows in his eyes and a wall around his heart. “Both,” he admitted. “All of it.”
Silas chose that moment to appear beside them, his presence a quiet, grounding force. “Everything alright here?” he asked, his voice smooth, unconcerned . But his eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
Evan glanced at him, then back at Rory. “We’re fine.”
Silas’ gaze flicked to Rory, a silent question. She gave him the smallest of nods. She could handle this. She could handle Evan.
Silas lingered for a second longer, then moved back down the bar, giving them the illusion of privacy. Rory knew better. Silas missed nothing in his own establishment.
She turned back to Evan. “You ever get married? Kids?”
He blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “No. You?”
She shook her head. “Too busy running.”
Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe, or understanding. “From what?”
“Take your pick.” She drained the last of her whiskey, the burn grounding her. “From expectations. From memories. From people who think they know what’s best for me.”
Evan was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly : “From me?”
Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to lie, to say no, that she hadn’t spent years looking over her shoulder, half-expecting to see him walking toward her. But the truth was a living thing between them, and it refused to be ignored. “Yeah,” she whispered. “From you, too.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. She should’ve pulled away. But she didn’t. “I’m sorry, Rory.”
She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his touch seep into her skin. It was foolish, dangerous, to let him back in even this much. But for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like running. “I know.”
The rain outside had eased to a dull patter against the windows. The bar was quieter now, the other patrons having trickled out one by one, leaving just the three of them—Rory, Evan, and Silas, who was pretending not to listen from his post at the far end of the counter.
Evan’s thumb traced slow circles on her skin. “What do you do now? For work, I mean.”
She almost laughed. Of all the things to ask. “I deliver food for a Chinese restaurant.”
“That’s…” He trailed off, clearly searching for a way to phrase it that wouldn’t sound like an insult.
“Not what you expected?” she finished for him.
“No,” he admitted. “But then again, neither am I.”
She pulled her hand back, suddenly needing the distance. “No. I suppose you’re not.”
He seemed to understand, leaning back in his stool, putting space between them. “You living around here?”
“Yeah. Flat above the bar.”
His eyebrows rose. “Silas’ place?”
She nodded. “He’s a friend.”
Evan glanced at Silas, then back at her. “He seems… protective.”
Rory followed his gaze. Silas was wiping down the counter now, his movements slow, deliberate. But his eyes were on them, watchful. “He looks out for people.”
“Good.” Evan’s voice was quiet. “You deserve that.”
The words hung between them, heavy with everything they’d left unsaid. Rory could feel the weight of the past pressing down on her, the ghost of what they’d been, what they might’ve been. But the present was here, solid and undeniable, and it demanded her attention.
She sighed, rubbing her temples. “It’s late. I should go.”
Evan hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”
She slid off the stool, her legs unsteady beneath her. The whiskey had done its job a little too well. Evan stood as well, his limp more pronounced now, as if the weight of the conversation had settled into his bones.
Silas appeared beside her, his voice low . “You good, Rory?”
She met his eyes, grateful for the lifeline. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Silas’ gaze flicked to Evan, a silent warning passing between them. Evan didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t let on. “It was good seeing you, Rory,” he said, his voice rough .
She hesitated, then reached into her pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper and a pen. She scribbled her number down, then handed it to him. “In case you’re in town again.”
He took it, his fingers brushing hers. “I’d like that.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and walked toward the door, her footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement glistening under the streetlights. She took a deep breath, the cool night air filling her lungs, and stepped out into the London night.
Behind her, the door swung shut, cutting off the warmth of the bar, the weight of the past. She didn’t look back.