Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQJ8EJAFW407MB0Z51AYR3

The rain had been falling for three days straight, a relentless London drizzle that clung to Rory’s coat and seeped into her boots as she climbed the narrow staircase to Eva’s flat. Her keys jingled in her gloved hand, her breath steaming faintly in the cold corridor. Ptolemy meowed from the other side of the door before she’d even turned the key — the old tabby always seemed to know when she was coming. She turned the first deadbolt, then the second, then the third, pushing the door open with her shoulder. The familiar scent of old paper, turmeric, and wet wool greeted her. Rain tapped against the grimy window above the cluttered kitchenette. Books spilled from sagging shelves, scrolls lay half-unfurled on the sofa, and a cracked teacup sat abandoned on the floor beside a mound of scribbled notes. But Rory froze. There was someone in the armchair near the window. A man, tall even seated, one leg crossed over the other, gloved fingers resting lightly on the carved ivory head of a cane. His platinum-blond hair was slicked back with precision, his sharp jaw shadowed with just enough stubble to soften its severity. The lamplight caught the odd dual hue of his eyes: one golden as honey, the other as dark as pitch. Lucien. Her breath caught. The door clicked shut behind her. Ptolemy, undisturbed, wound himself around her ankles. “Rory,” Lucien said, his voice a velvet murmur in the cramped room. “I wasn’t sure you’d come tonight.” She stood rooted, heart hammering. The air suddenly felt too thick, too charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. “What are you doing here?” “I needed to see you.” “You could’ve called.” He tilted his head slightly. “You wouldn’t pick up.” She had blocked his number six months ago, after the last time — after the message he’d left in French, words soft and aching and full of regret, words she hadn’t let herself translate until three in the morning with a bottle of cheap wine in her hand. “I’m not the same person you walked away from,” she said, toeing off her damp boots, voice steadier than she felt. “No,” he agreed, rising slowly. He didn’t reach for her, didn’t step closer. “But then, neither am I.” She dropped her keys on the stack of grimoires by the door and shrugged off her coat. Her black hair curled slightly at the ends from the rain. She avoided his gaze as she moved past him toward the kettle, setting it on the hob with more force than necessary. “Did Eva let you in?” “No. I let myself in.” She turned then. “You broke into Eva’s flat?” “It’s not breaking in when you know the codes,” he said, almost amused. “And when you’ve saved the tenant from a rogue wraith twice.” Rory exhaled sharply. “You always have an excuse.” “And you always assume the worst.” “You’re a half-demon information broker who keeps a blade in his cane. Forgive me if I don’t default to ‘innocent until proven guilty.’” Lucien’s mouth twitched. “I’ve never lied to you, Rory.” “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.” The words hung between them, raw and unguarded. She hadn’t meant to say them — not with that edge, not with that tremor beneath them. He looked away, just for a moment, his black eye catching the lamplight like obsidian. “I thought it was better that way.” “Better for who?” “For you.” He turned back, voice quiet now. “You were being hunted. Because of me. Because of who I was connected to. I cut those ties. I left. No forwarding address. No explanations. Just… distance.” “And now?” “Now, the threat’s resurfaced.” She stilled. “Who?” “A faction within Avaros. The Crimson Pact. They found out about us.” “There was no *us*,” she said quickly. “Funny. I recall differently.” She flushed, remembering moonlit rooftops, whispered confessions in French and English tangled together, the brush of his coat against her skin as they ducked into alleys not just to escape, but to steal a moment. His mouth on hers, careful at first, then desperate — as if he could press all his secrets into a single kiss. “We were a mistake,” she whispered. “No,” he said, stepping forward at last. “We were inevitable.” She backed up, hitting the counter. Ptolemy darted away with a huff. “I don’t have time for this, Lucien. I’ve got deliveries tomorrow. A life. I’m not part of your world anymore.” “You never were *in* my world,” he said, voice low. “You were above it. Beyond it. You saw me — the man, not the half-breed, not the fixer, not the bastard son of a demon prince. You looked at me, Rory, and you didn’t flinch.” Her hand instinctively brushed her left wrist, the crescent-shaped scar hidden beneath her sleeve. A childhood accident, yes — but also the first sigil she’d ever drawn, the first spell she’d cast, the night she’d discovered she wasn’t just human. The night Lucien had found her bleeding in an alley, terrified, and had taken her hand without hesitation. “You saved me that night,” she said softly. “And you saved me a hundred times after,” he replied. “By not running. By listening. By staying.” “I *did* run.” “You did. And I deserved it.” She looked at him then — truly looked. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar along his collarbone from a blade meant for her. The way his left eye shimmered with something unspoken. “Why now?” she asked. “Because they’re coming for you. Not me. *You.* They believe you have something. Knowledge. Power. A key.” “I don’t have anything.” “You have *her*,” he said. “Eva’s research. The codex fragments. They think you’ve translated them. That you know how to open the Veil.” “That’s insane. I don’t even know what the Veil *is*.” “Then let me protect you.” She laughed, brittle. “You? Protect me? You left. You disappeared for *months.* I thought — I didn’t know if you were alive. If you’d been taken. Killed.” “I survived,” he said. “But not unscathed.” He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, weathered and stained. He didn’t hand it to her — just placed it on the table between them. “What is that?” “A promise,” he said. “Written the night I left. I meant to send it. I never did.” She didn’t touch it. “Words don’t fix what’s broken, Lucien.” “No,” he agreed. “But actions might.” He stepped back, hand resting on the handle of his cane. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. Or for a second chance. I’m asking you to let me stand between you and the darkness chasing you. Just like you once stood between me and mine.” Her throat tightened. She remembered the first time he’d called her *Laila* — a name from an old prophecy, one he claimed was hers in another life. She’d laughed it off. But sometimes, in dreams, she saw a woman in silver robes, a crescent scar glowing on her wrist, standing before a door of starlight. She reached for the kettle, turning it off before it could whistle. “You always show up with danger and poetry,” she murmured. “And you,” he said, the faintest smile touching his lips, “always answer the door with a glare and a cup of tea. Some things don’t change.” She glanced at him then, catching his gaze — the strange, beautiful disparity of his eyes holding hers with a weight that made her chest ache. Rain drummed against the window. And for the first time in months, the silence between them didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like a beginning.