Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEV0WFSG66M757WJY30SB

The scent of cumin and cardamom seeped through the floorboards, a permanent perfume that clung to the curtains and the stacks of paper covering every surface. Rory sat cross-legged on the worn velvet sofa, a scroll unfurled across her knees, but she hadn't read a word in twenty minutes. The rain lashed against the single pane of glass overlooking Brick Lane, blurring the neon signs of the curry house below into smeared ribbons of red and green. She heard the knock before she saw the shadow beneath the door. It wasn't the急促 rap of a delivery driver or the heavy pound of a landlord. It was precise. Three distinct taps, spaced with metronomic patience. Rory's hand went instinctively to her left wrist, thumb rubbing over the small crescent-shaped scar there. She wasn't expecting anyone. Eva was out hunting leads in Southwark, and Ptolemy, the tabby cat, was asleep on the radiator. She stood, smoothing her jeans, and approached the door. Her fingers worked the three deadbolts, the metal cold and heavy in her palm. One, two, three. The mechanical clunks sounded like gunshots in the cramped flat. She opened the door a crack, chain still engaged. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing. He looked like he had been carved out of the London night itself. Rain dampened the shoulders of his charcoal suit, but the fabric didn't wrinkle; it simply drank the moisture and refused to show the strain. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place despite the weather. But it was his eyes that hit her, as they always did. The left one amber, glowing faintly in the dim hallway light, the right one black as a void. Heterochromatic. Unsettling. Beautiful. He held an ivory-handled cane in his gloved hand, the tip resting quietly on the scuffed linoleum. "Rory," he said. His voice was low, a velvet baritone that carried the faintest trace of Marseille beneath the London polish. "Lucien." She didn't open the chain. "You shouldn't be here." "And yet, here I am." He didn't move to leave. He didn't move at all. He just watched her, those mismatched eyes cataloging every detail of her face. "May I come in?" "No." "We need to talk." "We talked. In Paris. Remember? You said there was nothing left to say." The air between them tightened. The smell of the curry house below seemed to intensify, mixing with the scent of rain and the expensive sandalwood cologne he wore. It was a scent that triggered a visceral ache in her chest, a memory of hotel rooms and whispered secrets and the way he had walked away without looking back. "Paris was a mistake," Lucien said softly. "I was protecting you." "By disappearing?" Rory's voice cracked. She hated that it cracked. She prided herself on being cool-headed, on being the one who could think her way out of a burning building. But Lucien made her feel like she was standing in the flames. "You don't get to decide what protects me, Lucien. Not after Evan. Not after everything." "I know." He shifted his weight, the cane tapping once against the floor. Ptolemy woke up on the radiator, stretching before hopping down to wind himself around Lucien's legs. The cat, usually wary of strangers, purred against the tailored trousers. "But things are moving, Rory. The Avaros realm is bleeding into the city. You're in danger." "I'm always in danger." She unlatched the chain. She shouldn't have. Every instinct screamed at her to keep the door closed, to keep the wall up. But she couldn't resist the pull of him, the gravity that had drawn them together across continents and species. She swung the door open. Lucien stepped inside. The flat was too small for his presence. He filled the space, the shadows seeming to lengthen around him. He closed the door behind him and engaged the first deadbolt, then the second. He left the third open. A promise, or a threat. "You look tired," he said, looking at the stacks of books and research notes covering the table. "I work for a living. Some of us don't have family trusts and underground information networks to fall back on." "I never used my father's money." "Right. You earned every penny brokering deals for things that shouldn't exist." Rory walked past him to the small kitchenette, needing something to do with her hands. She put the kettle on. "Why now? Why come back?" "Because you stopped answering my calls." "Because you stopped calling." She turned to face him. He was closer than she expected. She had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his gaze. He was five-eleven, tall enough to loom, but he stood with a relaxed elegance that neutralized the threat. Lucien reached out, his gloved hand hovering near her arm. He stopped just short of touching her, respecting the boundary she hadn't verbally set but had physically enforced since the moment he arrived. "I had to sever the connection. The entities hunting you... they track through association. If they knew I cared for you, you would be dead." "You think I care about being dead?" The words slipped out before she could check them. Lucien's expression shifted, the mask of the impeccably dressed fixer slipping to reveal the man beneath. Pain flickered in the amber eye. "I care. Profoundly." The kettle began to whistle, a shrill scream that shattered the moment. Rory turned away to shut it off, her heart hammering against her ribs. She poured the water over two tea bags, the steam rising between them like a veil. "You left me in a safe house in Lyon," she said, her back to him. "You didn't even say goodbye." "I watched you for three weeks from the street corner. Until I knew you were safe." She turned around, mug in hand. "You watched me?" "I always watch you, Rory." He took the mug she offered. Their fingers brushed. His skin was warm, hotter than a human's should be. The half-demon heat radiated through the thin ceramic. "I am always watching." She took a sip of tea to hide the tremor in her hands. The crescent scar on her wrist throbbed, a phantom pain from a childhood accident that felt insignificant compared to the wound he had left. "So what happens now? You drop information and vanish again?" Lucien set the mug down on a stack of scrolls without looking. He stepped into her space, forcing her to look up at him. The air grew heavy, charged with the static of unsaid things. He reached out again, this time removing his glove. His bare hand cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. His skin was smooth, hot, real. "I am not vanishing this time," he said. "Not unless you tell me to leave." Rory looked at him. She saw the exhaustion hidden beneath the tailored suit, the tension in his jaw. She saw the ally who had saved her life more times than she could count, and the man who had broken her heart to keep it beating. "The third deadbolt," she said quietly. Lucien glanced at the door. "Yes?" "Lock it." He didn't smile, not exactly. But the tension in his shoulders dropped, the amber eye brightening. He moved past her to the door, engaging the final lock with a solid clunk. When he turned back, the distance between them was gone. He didn't kiss her, not yet. He just rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in, the scent of rain and tea and home mingling between them. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay," she replied. Outside, the rain continued to fall on Brick Lane, washing the streets clean, but inside the cramped flat, the storm had finally broken.