Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMV4N75BBSWZXQE4P16R4Y

The front door of Eva’s flat groaned under the weight of Lucien’s frame, the deadbolts clattering like a warning before they gave way. The moment the lock clicked, the air in the cramped space thickened, charged with something older than the scent of aged tea and old books—something sharp, electric. Aurora Carter didn’t turn around immediately. She stood at the window, the city’s neon glow bleeding through the grimy panes, her fingers tracing the scar on her wrist, the one that had been there since she was eight. *Remembering how it hurt.* Lucien exhaled, slow and deliberate, as if he’d been holding his breath for years. The cane he carried—ivory-handled, blade concealed—rested against the wall beside him, its polished surface catching the light. He wore a charcoal suit, tailored to perfection, the fabric whispering against his skin like a promise. "You’re here," he said, voice low, almost a whisper. "I didn’t expect you to answer." Aurora didn’t look at him. "You didn’t ask." A beat of silence. Then, the faintest rustle of fabric as he shifted, the cane’s tip brushing the floor. "I didn’t need to." His fingers twitched toward the blade, but he didn’t draw it. Instead, he stepped forward, closer than he should have been, the heat of his body radiating off him like a second skin. "You left me in London when you could’ve stayed." Her breath hitched. "And you came for me." He smirked, that crooked, knowing smile that had always made her stomach twist. "I came for the city. Not you." But his eyes—amber and black, shifting like a storm cloud—burned into hers. "You’re here now." The flat was small, but it was *her* flat. Bookshelves lined the walls, their spines worn from years of reading, scrolls and notebooks stacked haphazardly, the scent of ink and something older, something darker, clinging to the air. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, blinked up at them from his perch on the windowsill, tail flicking lazily. He didn’t move. Didn’t judge. Aurora turned slowly, her black hair falling just past her shoulders, the scar on her wrist catching the light. "You’re late," she said. Lucien’s gaze flicked to the door, then back to her. "I was waiting for you to come home." The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. She crossed her arms, the movement sharp against the fabric of her blouse. "You could’ve just called." "I didn’t want to." His voice was rough, like gravel underfoot. "I wanted to see you first." She scoffed, but her fingers tightened around the scar. "You always did have a way with words." He stepped closer, the cane still resting against the wall but the blade now hidden beneath his palm. "You were running from something, Aurora. Not just from me." The name on her lips was a question, but she didn’t ask it. Instead, she exhaled, the sound sharp. "I was running from everything." Lucien didn’t flinch. "Then let me help." The air between them crackled. The cat, Ptolemy, let out a low, satisfied mew, as if he understood the tension better than either of them. Aurora’s pulse hammered in her throat. "You’re not helping me." He tilted his head, studying her, the way he always had when he was thinking. "You’re not asking for it." She opened her mouth to argue, but the words died on her lips. Because he was right. She wasn’t asking for anything. She was just standing there, in the same flat she’d left behind, the same city that had swallowed her whole, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back. Lucien reached out, his fingers brushing hers—just for a second—before she could pull away. "Tell me what you need," he murmured. Aurora swallowed hard. "I don’t know." He smiled, that crooked, dangerous smile. "Then let me show you." The flat felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the bookshelves looming like silent witnesses. But for the first time in years, Aurora didn’t feel like she was running. She felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.