Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEVJBE9J1T3K0P7WDWSDN

The rain had turned Brick Lane into a slick, shimmering ribbon under the amber glow of streetlamps. Rory stood on the doorstep of Eva’s flat, her black jacket soaked at the shoulders, hair clinging to her neck in damp strands. She hadn’t planned to come here—not tonight, not ever, really—but the storm had chased her off her bike, and her flat above Silas’ bar felt too empty, too loud with memories she couldn’t escape. She raised a hand, hesitated, then knocked—three sharp raps that echoed through the thin walls. From inside came the soft padding of footsteps, then the metallic slide of deadbolts being drawn back. The door opened a crack, then wider. Lucien Moreau stood in the doorway. For a heartbeat, the world stopped. He wore one of his tailored charcoal suits, the jacket left open over a crisp white shirt, the top two buttons undone. His platinum-blond hair was slicked back as always, but there was a looseness in his posture, a rare absence of calculated precision. The amber eye—warm like aged cognac—widened slightly. The other, black as obsidian, remained still, unblinking. “Rory,” he said, the name slipping from his lips as if it had been waiting there for years. “Aurora,” she corrected instinctively, though they both knew she hadn’t answered to that in over a decade. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You remember.” “I remember a lot of things.” Silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of unsaid words. The air smelled of old paper, turmeric, and the faint, lingering trace of sandalwood—Eva’s incense. From the back of the flat, Ptolemy, the tabby, leapt onto a shelf, tail flicking curiously. Lucien took a step back. “Come in. You’re drenched.” Rory hesitated. She hadn’t expected *him* to be here. Eva never mentioned visitors, especially not *him*. But the cold rain bit at her skin, and the warmth of the flat beckoned. She stepped inside, leaving wet footprints on the worn wooden floor. He shut the door, reengaging the deadbolts with quiet finality. “Eva stepped out for milk. She’ll be back soon.” “I didn’t know you two were… close,” Rory said, peeling off her jacket and draping it over a chair buried beneath a stack of occult journals. “We have mutual interests,” Lucien said, watching her. “And mutual concern for certain reckless women who vanish without warning.” Rory stiffened. “I left a note.” “For Eva. Not for me.” Her breath caught. That was the first direct admission of hurt, raw and unvarnished. She turned to face him fully. “We weren’t—I mean, we never—” “We *were*,” he said softly. “We just never let ourselves be.” The truth of it settled between them like dust after an explosion. Two years ago, they’d orbited each other in the hazy underworld of London’s supernatural trade—Rory, delivering packages she wasn’t supposed to open; Lucien, brokering deals in backrooms that didn’t exist on any map. Their paths crossed too often, their banter too sharp, their glances too long. Then, one winter night, after a botched exchange at the old gasworks, they’d found themselves alone in the rain, backs against a rusted train car, breathing in tandem. And then—his hand brushing hers. A moment of silence. A kiss that tasted like whiskey and something darker, older. It should have been the beginning. Instead, Rory ran. She left London the next morning. Returned only after Eva tracked her down, months later, with a suitcase and a plea. Even then, she avoided Lucien’s name like a curse. Now, here he was. “You look well,” he said, breaking the silence. “For someone who treats rain like a personal challenge.” She managed a dry laugh. “Delivery work. It pays for rent.” “And living above a demon’s bar?” “Silas keeps the rent cheap. Says I ‘amuse his patrons.’” Lucien’s heterochromatic gaze flickered over her—the blue of her eyes, the way her damp hair clung to her cheek, the small crescent scar on her left wrist, just visible beneath her sleeve. He remembered that scar. She’d shown it to him once, late one night in a borrowed silence, after he’d asked about her past. She’d said it was from falling out of a tree at eight. He knew then there was more to it. He hadn’t pressed. He took a step closer. “Why are you here, Rory?” She met his stare. “Because I didn’t know where else to go.” Something shifted in his expression—something softer, more human than the polished broker the city feared. “You could have come to me.” “I was scared.” “Of me?” “No.” She swallowed. “Of what I’d feel.” The admission hung in the air, fragile. Lucien exhaled, running a hand over his face. “God, you’re infuriating. Do you know how many times I almost came looking for you? How many times I told myself I would, and then didn’t?” “You didn’t,” she whispered. “No. Because I told myself you didn’t want me to. That you’d made your choice.” “And now?” He looked at her—*really* looked. Not the armor, not the delivery girl persona, not the sharp wit she wielded like a blade. He saw the woman beneath: tired, stubborn, beautiful in the way that only the truly resilient are. “Now,” he said, voice low, “you’re standing in Eva’s flat, soaked to the bone, and you just admitted you were afraid of *feeling*. So either your definition of bravery has changed, or you’re hoping I’ll say something worth coming back for.” Rory’s breath hitched. “Maybe I just missed your stupid suits.” “Ah, so it’s the *suit* she’s after.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the faint spice of his cologne, the warmth of him cutting through the chill of her wet clothes. “Let me make something very clear, Aurora Carter. I have spent two years pretending I didn’t love you. Don’t think for a second that I’ll pretend again just because it’s easier.” Her heart pounded. “You—you never said—” “Because you left.” He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of her scar. “And I know what it’s like to run from love. My mother did it. My father *forced* her to. I promised myself I wouldn’t make you choose between safety and desire. But if you’re here now… if you’re *willing* to be here… then I won’t let you slip away again.” Tears stung her eyes. “I was afraid,” she whispered. “Afraid of how much I wanted you. Afraid of becoming someone’s victim again. Evan taught me that closeness is danger.” Lucien’s jaw tightened, his demon blood no doubt stirring at the mention of her abuser. But his voice remained steady. “I am not Evan. And I will never ask you to shrink. If anything, I’ll demand you take up more space.” A laugh escaped her, wet and breathless. He cupped her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. “Say it, Rory. Say you’re here for *me*. Not shelter. Not memory. Not regret. For *me*.” She looked into his dual-colored eyes—amber and black, human and demon, fire and shadow—and found no pretense. Only truth. “I’m here for you,” she said, voice steady now. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find my way back.” He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, holding her as the rain drummed against the windows and Ptolemy curled on the sofa, purring into his paws. And for the first time in years, Rory felt something she’d forgotten existed. She felt home.