Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMDNQJTC5X8JR7TTWZZ87F

The sharp rap of knuckles against wood cut through the quiet of the flat. Aurora glanced up from the tome she'd been poring over, surprised by the sudden interruption. The tabby cat, Ptolemy, meowed plaintively from his perch on the windowsill. Rory set the book aside and rose from the threadbare sofa, her bare feet whispering against the scuffed hardwood as she crossed to the door. Cautious, she pressed an eye to the peephole. The man outside towered over the peeling paint of the doorframe, his silhouette unmistakable. Even hazy through the fisheye lens, Lucien Moreau cut a striking figure, all sleek lines and effortless elegance. His charcoal suit fit him like a second skin, the tailored seams hugging the breadth of his shoulders. One lean hand rested atop the ivory head of his ever-present cane. "What are you doing here, Lucien?" Rory called, striving for a coolness she didn't quite feel. Her fingers hovered over the locks, tension singing through her tendons. "That's no way to greet an old friend, chérie," Lucien drawled, his smoker's rasp muffled by the barrier between them. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" Rory's eyes narrowed. She hadn't seen him in months, not since their falling out over a job gone sideways. They'd parted on fraught terms, leaving a glossy sheen of ruffled feathers and hurt feelings in their wake. The sight of him now sent an instinctive prickle down her nape. She debated leaving him in the hall. But curiosity and a pang of something more dangerous whittled away at her resolve. With a sigh, she unlatched the locks and tugged open the door. Lucien's mismatched eyes glinted, amber and obsidian both, as he swept an assessing look over her. Warmth followed in the wake of his regard, spilling over her skin like sunlight. His grin was slow and sharp, all tooth and trouble. "I'd almost forgotten what a vision you are when you're cross," he said, propping one shoulder against the jamb. "How've you been keeping, chère mine?" The casual endearment made her bristle. She folded her arms, hip cocking to one side. "I'm not your anything, Luc. What do you want?" Before he could answer, Ptolemy wandered over to twine around Lucien's ankles. The mercenary stooped to scratch between the feline's ears, something boyish and unguarded softening his features. Ptolemy purred, nuzzling into his palm. "Some guard cat you are," Rory muttered. She heaved another breath and stepped back. "Fine, come in. But only because it's cold out there." "How hospitable of you." Lucien straightened, the wry slant of his mouth belying the dryness of his tone. He sauntered past her into the cluttered warmth of the flat. Rory closed the door behind him, the locks tumbling home with a snick. She turned to face him, leaning against the wood. "You didn't answer my question." Lucien's gaze roamed the familiar jumble of books and baubles, his lips quirking. "Ah, but I did, chère. I've missed our little chats." The admission sent an irrational flutter through her ribcage. She flattened it, keeping her expression neutral. "You could have called." "Where's the romance in that?" He prowled deeper into the room, one finger trailing idly over the spines of her collection. Dust motes scattered in his wake. "I thought we could do with a more personal touch." "I'm not paying for any information you think I need." She hoped he couldn't see the way her hands had balled into fists. Lucien arched a pale brow, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. "I'm wounded, chèrie. Can't a man visit an old friend out of the goodness of his heart?" "No," she deadpanned. He chuckled, the sound rough and warm against the quiet. He settled himself on the couch with feline grace, hands resting atop the curve of his cane. His eyes never left hers, some unspoken challenge glinting in their dichromatic depths. "Sit with me a while?" Rory considered refusing on principle. They'd said all they needed to say to one another. There was no reason to prolong his visit, reopen old wounds scratched raw by misunderstandings and incompatible ideals. She should send him away, maintain what little distance she'd managed to claw out for herself these last few months. But fondness and familiarity made her hesitate. He might be a consummate rogue, but he'd never steered her wrong. He'd been there when she'd needed him, steady as stone, even when she hadn't particularly wanted him there. Biting back a sigh, she crossed the room and perched primly on the edge of the cushion. "There better not be any ulterior motives this time, Luc." "I'm hurt, chère," he said, splaying a hand over his chest. "When have I ever given you reason to doubt my intentions?" "Repeatedly and with great relish," she replied tartly, but there was no real venom in it. They'd played this game too many times to count, the familiar push and pull of their shared history stretching between them like a thread. Lucien laughed, low and honeyed, and her traitorous pulse thudded at the sound. "I've missed you, Rory." He leaned in, conspiratorial, and dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "Admit it — you've missed me too." "Like a hole in the head," she drawled, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the smile tugging at her lips. He grinned, something impossibly tender softening the sharp lines of his face. "Liar." They held there a moment, gazes tangled like limbs, warmth seeping into the space between them. Ptolemy wandered over to drape himself across Lucien's feet, a purring, boneless heap. Rory caved first. She always did. "What brought this on?" she asked, when the quiet stretched taut between them. Lucien's cane traced idle patterns against the floor, the scratch of metal on wood oddly soothing. "A man can't visit a friend?" "You only ever come to me when you need something." She tipped her head, considering. "Or when you think I need something." He glanced away, profile cut in marble and moonlight. "I don't much like how we left things. I was hoping we could... start over, of a sort." Her brows lifted. "Start over," she echoed flatly. He grimaced. "It sounded better in my head." "I'm sure it did." She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "What exactly are you proposing here, Luc?" "I'm not entirely sure." He shifted, restless energy skating through his long limbs. "You're the only real friend I've got, chère. I don't want to squander that." She regarded him for a long moment, weighing her words before she spoke. "You're asking me to trust you again. To let you in." His eyes found hers, searing in their intensity. "I know it's a lot to ask. But I mean it, Rory. Let me make things right." It was tempting, achingly so. Some traitorous part of her wanted to let him back in, to sink into the familiar sanctity of his presence and forget the world outside. The rest of her knew better than to fall for pretty words and prettier smiles, no matter how earnest they seemed. "I'll think about it," she said finally, the offer hanging between them like smoke. Lucien's grin was sudden and sharp, bright as the edge of a knife. "I'll take it."