Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPBNCJH0T55YWPXV6W79JS

The knock came as Rory was elbow-deep in the sink, scrubbing a week’s worth of takeout containers. She froze, soap suds dripping from her wrists. No one ever knocked—not here, not at Eva’s flat. Eva had a key, and Rory’s clients knew better than to show up unannounced. She dried her hands on her jeans, the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist catching the dim kitchen light. She padded to the door, her socks whispering against the worn hardwood floor. Through the peephole, her breath hitched. Lucien stood on the landing, his platinum hair slicked back as always, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane. He looked out of place in this dingy Brick Lane hallway, his charcoal suit immaculate, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—fixed on the door as if he could feel her watching him. For a moment, Rory considered not answering. She could pretend she wasn’t home, let him think she’d moved on to better places. But Lucien wasn’t a man who knocked twice. If she didn’t open the door, he’d leave, and she’d spend the rest of the night wondering what he’d wanted. She turned the deadbolts—three of them, each clicking open with a finality that made her stomach twist—and pulled the door open just enough to see him fully. The air between them crackled with unspoken words. “Lucien.” Her voice was steady, a feat she was proud of. “What brings you here?” His lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that never reached his eyes. “Aurora. May I come in?” She hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of the door. The last time they’d seen each other, he’d been disappearing into the foggy streets of London, his cane tapping against the cobblestones as he walked away without looking back. She’d stood there, rain soaking through her coat, and told herself she didn’t care. “Is this business?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. Lucien didn’t do personal visits. His gaze flicked over her shoulder, taking in the cluttered flat behind her—the stacks of books, the scrolls spilling off the coffee table, Ptolemy the tabby cat curled up on the windowsill like a silent judge. “Indulge me,” he said, his voice low and smooth. She stepped aside, letting him in. The scent of sandalwood and something darker—something distinctly him—filled the small space as he crossed the threshold. He tapped his cane lightly against the floor, the sound echoing in the quiet flat. “Nice place,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. He paused by the coffee table, lifting a scroll with gloved fingers. “Your research?” “Eva’s,” Rory said, closing the door and leaning against it. “I’m just borrowing the flat.” He set the scroll down carefully, his movements precise, deliberate. “You always did have a knack for finding trouble.” “And you always had a knack for showing up when trouble found me,” she countered, crossing her arms over her chest. “So, what is it this time? Demon cult? Missing artifact? Or did you just miss me?” He turned to face her, his mismatched eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “What if I said all three?” She snorted, though her heart betrayed her with a traitorous thud. “Cut the crap, Lucien. What do you want?” He took a step closer, his cane tapping softly against the floor. The sound was familiar, a rhythm she’d once found comforting. Now it felt like a warning. “I need your help.” “Help?” She raised an eyebrow. “You? Lucien Moreau, the man who has all the answers, needs my help?” His jaw tightened, a rare crack in his otherwise calm facade. “There’s something I can’t handle alone.” “And you think I can?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. “Last I checked, you made it pretty clear you didn’t need me—or anyone else—to handle your problems.” “Things change,” he said, his voice softening. “People change.” She looked away, her gaze falling on Ptolemy, who was watching them with unblinking green eyes. The cat’s tail flicked lazily, as if dismissing the tension in the room. Rory wished she could do the same. “Why now?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “Why after all this time?” He closed the distance between them, his cane resting against the edge of the sofa. The scent of him enveloped her, warm and familiar, and she hated how much she’d missed it. “Because I can’t do this without you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And because I was wrong—about a lot of things.” Her chest tightened, and she forced herself to meet his gaze. “You were wrong about what, exactly?” He reached out, his gloved hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. She didn’t pull away, though every instinct screamed at her to. “About us,” he said, his thumb grazing her cheek. “About how much I needed you.” She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. “Lucien…” “I know I hurt you,” he continued, his voice rough with emotion. “And I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I’m asking for it anyway.” Her eyes burned, and she blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. “You walked away,” she whispered. “You just… left.” “I know,” he said, his hand dropping to her shoulder. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.” She stared at him, her mind racing. He was here, standing in Eva’s cluttered flat, saying things she’d dreamed of hearing for months. But dreams had a way of turning to ash in the light of reality. “What if I can’t do this?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What if I can’t trust you again?” His gaze softened, and he lifted her chin with one finger. “Then I’ll spend every day proving I’m worth it.” She closed her eyes, his words echoing in her mind. She wanted to believe him, to let herself fall back into the safety of his arms. But the scars he’d left—both seen and unseen—were still fresh. “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted, opening her eyes to meet his. “But I want to.” His lips curved into a small, genuine smile—the kind that reached his eyes and lit up his face in a way she’d almost forgotten. “That’s all I need,” he said, pulling her into his arms. She hesitated for a moment, her hands hovering at her sides. Then, with a sigh, she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, a reassuring rhythm that anchored her in the storm of emotions. “You’re not allowed to leave me again,” she mumbled into his suit. He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” They stood there for what felt like an eternity, the world outside the flat forgotten. Ptolemy curled up on the windowsill, his tail twitching as if in approval. For the first time in months, Rory felt like she could breathe.