Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AT3T1J9G4G8MSMB6J271GA

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered as Rory pushed through the door, the hinge groaning under the weight of the evening’s damp air. She shook the rain from her jacket, fingers brushing the crescent scar on her wrist—a habit she’d never quite shaken. The bar was quiet, the usual hum of conversation muted by the weather. Silas stood behind the counter, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate strokes. His signet ring caught the low light as he glanced up. “Took you long enough.” Rory smirked. “Traffic was a nightmare. Some idiot in a Mini decided the pavement was a shortcut.” Silas chuckled, setting the glass down. “Sounds like London.” She slid onto a stool, the wood smooth under her palms. The bar smelled of aged whiskey and old paper, the walls lined with maps and photographs that had seen better decades. She’d always liked it here—no pretences, no questions. Just the quiet understanding of a man who’d seen too much to judge. Then the door swung open again. A gust of wind sent a shiver through the room. Rory didn’t turn, but Silas’ gaze flicked past her, his expression shifting just enough to make her glance over her shoulder. The man in the doorway hesitated, water dripping from his coat onto the worn floorboards. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that had once been all sharp angles and easy grins. Now, the edges had softened, or maybe just worn down. His hair was darker than she remembered, streaked with silver at the temples. He looked like a man who’d carried things he couldn’t put down. Her breath caught. “Evan.” The name slipped out before she could stop it. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto hers. For a second, neither moved. The air between them thickened, heavy with years and things left unsaid. Then he stepped forward, the faintest limp in his stride. “Rory.” Silas’ voice cut through the tension, low and steady. “You know him?” She swallowed. “Used to.” Evan reached the bar, his fingers curling around the edge like he needed something solid to hold onto. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” “Funny. I was about to say the same.” Silas slid a glass toward Evan without a word, his hazel eyes flicking between them. He knew better than to ask. Evan exhaled, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t been so tired. “You look… the same.” She arched a brow. “Liar.” He rubbed his jaw, the stubble there more salt than pepper now. “Okay. Older. But the same.” “You, on the other hand…” She let the words hang. He’d filled out, the leanness of his youth replaced by something heavier, something that spoke of long nights and longer regrets. His hands—once quick, always restless—were still now, as if he’d learned the hard way that some things weren’t meant to be grabbed. Silas poured a whiskey, neat, and pushed it toward Evan. “You’re dripping on my floor.” Evan blinked, then glanced down at the puddle forming around his boots. “Right. Sorry.” He shrugged off his coat, revealing a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Rory’s fingers twitched. Silas didn’t react. Just wiped the counter with a rag that had seen better days. Evan caught her staring. “It’s not what you think.” “Isn’t it?” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not with them anymore.” “Since when?” “Since Prague.” The word hung between them, sharp as broken glass. Rory’s stomach twisted. Prague. The last place she’d seen him before everything went to hell. Before the bruises, the late-night calls, the way he’d look at her like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning. Before she’d packed a bag and left in the middle of the night, a note on the pillow and a one-way ticket to London in her pocket. Silas’ limp was more pronounced as he moved to the far end of the bar, giving them the illusion of privacy. The signet ring glinted as he adjusted a stack of glasses. Evan’s voice dropped. “I looked for you. After.” “Didn’t look hard enough.” “I went to Cardiff. Your parents—” “Wouldn’t tell you where I’d gone. I know.” He flinched. Just a little. “I should’ve tried harder.” She wrapped her fingers around her untouched drink, the glass cold against her skin. “Why now, Evan? Why walk into *this* bar, tonight of all nights?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a slow sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. “I heard you were in London. Took me a while to track you down.” “And?” “And I needed to see you.” Rory laughed, but there was no humour in it. “That’s it? After all this time, that’s all you’ve got?” Evan’s jaw tightened. “What do you want me to say, Rory? That I’m sorry? That I was an arsehole? That I should’ve let you go the second I realised I was dragging you down with me?” The words hit like a punch to the gut. She’d spent years telling herself she didn’t care, that she’d moved on, that the fear and the anger had long since faded. But here he was, standing in front of her, and it was like no time had passed at all. Silas cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “You two need a table?” Evan shook his head. “We’re fine.” Rory didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure they were fine. She wasn’t sure of anything right now. Evan leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not the same man I was, Rory. I swear.” She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But the ghost of his hands around her wrist, the echo of his voice raised in anger, the way she’d flinched at sudden movements for months after—those things didn’t just disappear. “People don’t change that much.” “No?” He gestured to himself. “Look at me. Look at *you*.” She did. And she saw the girl she’d been—scared, trapped, desperate for a way out. But she also saw the woman she’d become. The one who’d built a life here, who delivered food and paid her rent and didn’t jump at shadows anymore. Silas set a bowl of peanuts between them, his movements deliberate. “Eat. You’re making my customers nervous.” Evan managed a small smile. “Still the same, Silas.” The older man grunted. “And you’re still an idiot.” Rory picked at the label on her glass. “What do you want, Evan?” He met her gaze, steady and sure in a way he hadn’t been in years. “A second chance. Not to go back. Just… to start over.” The weight of his words settled between them. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to say no. She wanted to scream, to cry, to pretend this conversation had never happened. But all she did was take a slow sip of her drink and say, “That’s not how it works.”