Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMHCZJCS72BGGBS5PJ85EH

The sharp rap at the door startled Rory, causing her to nearly knock over the stack of ancient Mesopotamian history texts she'd been meticulously parsing through. Ptolemy, her loyal tabby, shot her a reproachful glare before curling back into a furry circle atop a teetering heap of mystical botanical encyclopedias. "Temi, I swear, if that's you trying to scare me again..." she muttered, sliding off the worn sofa and padding cautiously to the door in her mismatched socks. Brick Lane was lively, but you could never be too careful. She acesso a nearby cricket bat and pressed an eye to the peephole, heart thumping. A familiar silhouette loomed, watery through the fish-eyed lens. Tall and elegant in a tailored charcoal suit, good eye glinting amber, the other dark as pitch. Rory sucked in a breath, a thousand emotions colliding at once - fondness, longing, anger, betrayal. She unlatched the three deadbolts with trembling fingers. The door creaked open. Lucien Moreau stood there, leaning casually on his ivory-handled cane, a wry half-smile playing on his finely-chiseled features. "Hello, chérie. It's been a while," he drawled, voice like silk sliding over gravel. "Not long enough," Rory retorted, but the bite in her tone didn't quite land. She hated how her heart still skipped at his stupid French affectations. "What do you want, Lucien?" "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" He arched a pale eyebrow, peering past her into the cluttered depths of the flat. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" Rory gripped the doorframe, torn between slamming it in his infuriatingly handsome face and finally getting some damn closure. Dammit, why did he have to show up now, just when she was putting her life back together? "Five minutes," she said at last, stepping aside with a resigned huff. "And keep your paws off my books." Lucien chuckled, sauntering inside with lazy feline grace. His appraising gaze swept over precariously stacked tomes, a sprawling corkboard of pinned notes and theories, the chipped teacups and takeaway containers strewn haphazardly around. "Cozy," he remarked. "I see you've redecorated." "Fuck off," Rory said sweetly, plopping back onto the couch and drawing her knees to her chest. "What brings you to my neck of the woods, Luc? Or do I even want to know?" He meandered through the organized chaos, trailing a finger along book spines, picking up and examining trinkets with casual familiarity. "I heard you'd taken up with some unsavory characters. Thought I'd check in." "Unsavory?" Rory snorted. "Kettle, meet pot." "A necessary evil," he murmured, stooping to check on Ptolemy. The tabby stretched luxuriously, shamelessly angling for ear scritches. Damn traitor. Rory rolled her eyes. "The only evil necessity I see is you sticking that silver tongue where it doesn't belong. Again. I'm doing just fine." "To be fair, my tongue is quite versatile," he said innocently, and her cheeks flamed at the wicked gleam in his mismatched eyes. "But I'm not here to fight, Aurora. Or to reminisce about...pleasanter times." Lucien settled gracefully beside her on the sofa, close enough that she caught the faint spicy scent of his cologne. His knee brushed hers, sending a traitorous spark up her thigh. She gritted her teeth, equal parts furious and electrified. "Fancy a drink?" she asked tightly, already reaching for the whiskey bottle on the coffee table. Liquid courage to wash down the lump in her throat. "Trying to get me drunk, chérie? Naughty girl," he tutted, plucking the bottle from her nerveless fingers and pouring two generous fingers. He handed her a glass, their fingertips grazing electrically. "But I don't recommend mixing alcohol with the truth serum I slipped in your tea earlier." Rory froze, ice crystallizing in her veins. "You son of a bitch..." "Don't worry, I'm only joking. Mostly." Lucien leaned back, propping an ankle on his knee. "Relax, chérie. I just want to talk." "Talk. Right. Because that's ever boded well for me," she laughed bitterly, downing her whiskey in a single stinging gulp. It warmed a path to her belly, emboldening her. "It's never just talk with you, is it? Always an agenda." He had the grace to wince, his elegant throat working as he swallowed his own drink. "I deserved that. But I swear on my father's horns, I'm not here to ensnare or manipulate. I...just needed to see you, Rory. One last time." The tender vulnerability in his voice, so at odds with his slick composure, shattered what remained of her defenses. Damn him, she thought miserably, fighting the prickling behind her eyelids. Damn him for making her want to believe, even now. "Why?" she croaked. He scrubbed a hand over his face, for once seeming at a loss for pretty words. "You weren't the only one who got hurt, you know. When you left..." He shook his head, hair glinting like burnished gold in the lamplight. "I didn't realize how far I'd fallen until it was too late. But I'm trying to be better. For you." Rory didn't trust herself to speak, too much and not enough clogging her throat. For so long, she'd raged at the mere thought of him, blamed him for every sleepless night, every tear shed into her pillow. But seeing him here, uncloaked and unvarnished, the anger felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else. Someone she used to be. "Fuck's sake, Luc," she whispered finally, setting down her glass with shaking hands. "Why'd you have to go and say something like that? Just when I was starting to hate you properly." He gave her a crooked smile, thumb brushing a stray tear from her cheek. "Because I love you, you infuriating woman. I love your brilliant, breakable heart. Your stubborn, infuriating bravery. I always have, even when I was too broken to show it. I just...I needed you to know. Before I let you go for good." His words hung between them, raw and heavy. The flat was so quiet, Rory could hear the rustle of paper, the scritch of Ptolemy's claws on cardboard. She wanted nothing more than to tumble into his arms, find solace in his smoky, spicy scent. But the snarled tapestry of their history held her back, anchored by the weight of a thousand betrayals and burned bridges. Because love wasn't always enough, and some wounds cut too deep to cauterize. "You should go," she said finally, hating the defeat in her voice. "I...I can't do this again, Luc. Not with you. It's too much." Agony flickered briefly across his patrician features, there and gone so fast she might've imagined it. He nodded gravely, rising to his feet with a wry chuckle. "Story of my life, hm? One day too late and a dollar short." He didn't look at her as he straightened his lapels, brushed imaginary lint from his sleeves. Didn't look at her as he stepped over the scattered books, crossed to the door. Rory bit her lip bloody, watching him go, every fiber of her being screaming to call him back. His hand was on the knob when he paused, glancing over his shoulder at her. The naked longing and regret in his mismatched eyes stole the breath from her lungs. "For what it's worth, Aurora Carter...I hope you find what you're looking for. The great love you deserve. Just...try not to think too poorly of me, eh?" With that, he was gone, the door closing behind him with a terrible finality. Rory stared at it for a long time, the whiskey souring in her gut. Then she buried her face in her hands, tears soaking into her palms, and wept until the only sound left in the shabby little flat was the forlorn cooing of the tabby cat twining around her ankles.