Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMCV7A59DPX66049MKK28Q

Rory nearly dropped the stack of scrolls in her arms when she opened the door to find Lucien standing there, one hand leaning casually against the doorframe. Her heart stuttered at the unexpected sight of him, all angular cheekbones and slicked-back hair, crisp lines of his charcoal suit somehow untouched by the light drizzle that hung in the London air. "Lucien," she said stupidly, as if her brain had short-circuited. It had been months since she'd last seen him, since he'd walked away from her flat without a backward glance. She'd thought—hoped, maybe—that he wouldn't come back. He offered her a crooked smile, not quite meeting her eyes. "Rory," he greeted, voice low and honeyed. "May I come in?" She hesitated, the shape of him filling her doorway, casting shadows along the edges of her cluttered front hall. The last time he'd stood here, they'd left bruises on each other in the dark. Rory still dreamed about it sometimes, woke aching with want. "Please," she managed, stepping back to let him slip past her into the flat. He brushed by her, close enough that his jacket sleeve skimmed her wrist, and a shiver chased up her spine. Rory shut the door behind him, steeling herself before she turned to face him. "What brings you here, Lucien?" she asked, proud of how steady her voice sounded. He wandered further into her flat, taking in the stacks of books and notes like he was seeing them for the first time. "I need your help," he said finally, stopping in front of her small window that overlooked Brick Lane. Rain spattered softly against the glass, haloing his silhouette. Rory raised an eyebrow, setting the scrolls down on a crowded shelf. "My help," she repeated, crossing her arms over her chest. "And what makes you think I'd be willing to help you, after the last time?" Lucien turned to face her, his expression uncharacteristically open. "Because you're the only one I trust to do what needs to be done." She made a skeptical noise, but curiosity got the better of her. "What needs to be done, exactly?" He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, worn journal. It looked ancient, the leather cover scuffed and the pages yellowing at the edges. "I need you to translate this," Lucien said, holding it out to her. Rory eyed the journal warily before taking it from him. It was heavy in her hands, the pages thick and rough against her fingertips. She flipped it open to a random page, scanning the neat rows of text. "It's in Old High German," she said, recognizing the language from her university days. "It looks like it might be a grimoire of some kind. Where did you get this?" Lucien's voice went tight. "It belongs to someone I'm working for. They need the spells translated, but I don't trust anyone else with the job." Rory glanced up at him sharply, trying to read his face. "Why not?" His jaw tightened, just barely. "Let's just say the original owner of this grimoire is not a nice person." She weighed the journal in her hands, considering. It was a bad idea, getting mixed up in whatever trouble Lucien had stumbled into—she knew that. But the thought of translating an ancient grimoire sparked a deep, insistent curiosity, and as much as she wanted to deny it, she missed the thrill of working with Lucien. They balanced each other out, sharp edges against sharp edges. "Fine," she said, voice=wry. "I'll do it. But only because this journal looks fascinating." A sharp smile cut across his face. "I appreciate it, Aurora." "Don't," she warned, narrowing her eyes. "Don't you dare thank me yet. I haven't even started." Lucien held up his hands in surrender, but there was a glint of something like excitement in his eye. "Whatever you say, ma chère." He took a step towards her, close enough that she could smell the clean, faintly spicy scent of his cologne. Rory's breath caught, painfully aware of how small her flat suddenly felt with him in it. "Lucien," she said, and she didn't know if it was a warning or a plea. He brushed a strand of hair back from her face, fingers skimming her cheekbone. "I know," he said, quiet and full of things unsaid. "I know, Rory." For a moment, the air in the flat seemed to crackle with electricity, with everything they'd left unfinished between them. Rory knew she should step back, cut the tension with a sharp word or a wry laugh like she usually did—but she didn't move. Slowly, deliberately, Lucien dipped his head to kiss her.