Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMC98F97ZN1CPKPEMRXTP7

The sharp rap of knuckles against wood shattered the silence of the small flat on Brick Lane, startling Ptolemy mid-stretch on the windowsill. Aurora Carter—Rory to her friends—froze, her hand hovering over the worn pages of a musty leather-bound tome. She wasn't expecting company; few people knew where she lived, let alone dropped by unannounced. The knocking sounded again, more insistent this time. Ptolemy meowed plaintively, his tail swishing. Rory swallowed hard and rose from the couch, nearly tripping over a stack of books as she made her way to the door. She hesitated, then undid the three deadbolts with a series of heavy clicks. The door swung open to reveal Lucien Moreau, slicked-back platinum hair glinting under the harsh fluorescents of the hallway. One heterochromatic eye, amber and black, swept over her, his expression unreadable. "Bonjour, chérie. Aren't you going to invite me in?" Rory's heart thudded against her ribs. She hadn't seen Lucien since that night, six months ago, when they'd parted on complicated terms. She still remembered the heat of his skin, the brush of his lips against hers. The sting of his parting words. "What are you doing here?" He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, tailored suit straining against his shoulders. "I was in the neighborhood." A smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "And I wanted to see you. Can I come in?" She hesitated a moment longer, then stepped aside. He brushed past her, his arm grazing hers, sending an electric jolt up her spine. She shut the door behind him and turned to face him, arms crossed. "Why are you really here?" Lucien's gaze swept the cluttered flat, taking in the haphazard piles of books, the threadbare couch, the lone dying plant on the windowsill. "Charming place you have here." He picked up a scroll from the coffee table, turning it over in his long fingers. Rory snatched it back, rolling it tightly. "Don't change the subject." He sighed, sinking onto the couch, cane propped against his leg. "I've been thinking about you, Aurora. About us." His mismatched eyes met hers. "I regret how we left things." She remembered that night vividly—the damnable mistake that drove her from his embrace, his flat, his life. She should've known better than to trust a man like Lucien, fixer for the supernatural underworld, with her heart. She'd been drawn in by his charm, his cunning mind, the way he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. But he'd only wanted her for what she could do, the secrets locked in her strange, untrained mind. "You made your feelings quite clear," she said coolly. "I believe your exact words were, 'You're not cut out for this world, chérie. Go home to Cardiff.' Well, I didn't run home to Mommy and Daddy. I stayed in London, made my own way." "I underestimated you," he said quietly. "I see that now. You're stronger than I gave you credit for." She laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Damn right I am. I don't need you, Lucien." "No," he agreed, "you don't. But maybe I need you, Aurora." Her breath caught. He'd never needed anyone, not as long as she'd known him. He was the fixer, the one with all the answers, all the connections. He didn't let anyone close. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying..." He rose from the couch, crossing to where she stood in three long strides. His hand came up to tuck a lock of straight black hair behind her ear. "I've missed you. Us. What we had, however briefly." Her traitorous heart fluttered. "There is no us. There can't be. We want different things." "Do we?" His hand slid along her jaw, tilting her face up to his. "Or are we just too afraid to admit what we really want?" She met his gaze, searching for the lie in his eyes. But there was only sincerity, and a hint of something else—longing. "Lucien..." His lips cut off whatever protest she might've made. She stiffened for an instant, then melted into the kiss, her arms snaking around his neck, pulling him closer. He tasted of whiskey and smoke, desperation and desire. Part of her knew this was a mistake. She'd get burned again, like always. But the rest of her, the part that had spent months yearning for his touch, his warmth, silenced the doubts. She gave herself over to the kiss, to the rush of blood in her veins, the tangle of tongues and teeth. To Lucien. When they broke apart at last, she was breathless, dizzy. His forehead rested against hers, eyes closed. "Je t'aime," he whispered. "I should've said it months ago. I love you, Aurora." Her heart seized. Leave it to Lucien to drop a bomb like that right after kissing her senseless. She pulled back, searching his face. "Why now? Why tell me this now?" "Because I've been a fool," he said simply. "Je suis désolé, mon amour. I'm sorry. I pushed you away. I shouldn't have. That was my mistake, one I've regretted every day since." "And what about next time?" she asked, voice thick with emotion. "What happens when things get hard again? When I stumble, or make a mistake? Will you leave me again?" "No." He cupped her face in both hands, so gently it made her want to weep. "I won't. I swear it. On my life, Aurora. I won't leave you again." She wanted to believe him, with everything in her. But trust was a fragile thing, easily shattered. "I can't—I don't know if I can do this, Lucien. I can't be broken again, not by you." "I don't want to break you. I want to stand by you, support you. Be your partner. If you'll let me." He pressed his lips to her forehead, chastely. "Take your time, chérie. Think about it. I'm not going anywhere." Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and unwelcome. Six months ago, she would've given anything to hear those words from him. Now, they terrified her. Terrified her because she still wanted them to be true. To believe him. To trust. "I'll think about it," she said at last. "But I make no promises." "That's all I ask." He kissed her again, slow and sweet. "Bonne nuit, mon amour. Until next time." She walked him to the door and let him out into the night, closing the locks behind him with shaking fingers. Ptolemy wound around her ankles, purring. She scooped him up, burying her face in his soft fur. Bloody hell, what had she just done? What was she going to do? Rory sighed, carrying Ptolemy back to the couch and sinking onto the cushions. She had no answers, only Lucien's words echoing in her head: I love you. I'm not going anywhere. She could only pray he meant them, and that she had the strength to survive if he didn't.