Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQY182A119SC03BV1YF6MH

The first deadbolt slid back with a heavy metallic clunk, followed by the second, then the third. Rory paused with her hand on the chain, listening to the muffled sounds of Brick Lane bleeding through the wood. Traffic, rain, the distant shout of a drunk tourist. She undid the chain and pulled the door open. Lucien stood on the landing, water dripping from the brim of an umbrella he wasn't holding. He looked exactly as he had six months ago, when he'd walked out of her life without a backward glance. The charcoal suit was tailored to within an inch of its life, hugging shoulders that seemed too broad for the cramped hallway. His platinum hair was slicked back, gleaming under the flickering fluorescent light of the stairwell. But it was the eyes that hit her first. The amber one caught the light like polished honey; the black one swallowed it whole. You're blocking the heat, she said. Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. Lucien didn't move. He leaned on the ivory handle of his cane, the weight of him resting easily on the thin wood. Behind him, the smell of turmeric and cumin drifted up from the curry house below, mixing with the scent of wet wool and ozone that always seemed to cling to him. Aurora, he said. His voice was a low rumble, French accent softening the edges of her name. It's Rory. You know that. Do I? He stepped forward, forcing her to retreat or be brushed by the lapel of his coat. She stepped back. He crossed the threshold, bringing the chill of the London night into the warm clutter of Eva's flat. The space was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. Every surface was drowning in paper. Books lay spine-up on the floor, scrolls were pinned to the walls with knitting needles, and research notes formed a precarious archipelago across the dining table. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, jumped down from the top of a bookshelf and wound himself around Lucien's polished shoes, purring like a diesel engine. Of course he likes you, Rory said, closing the door and engaging the first lock. Everyone does. Eventually. Lucien tapped the cane against the floorboards. The sound was sharp in the small room. He turned to face her, and the air between them tightened, drawn taut like a bowstring. You changed your hair. It's the same length it was in Marseille. Shorter. He tilted his head. It suits you. Less... hiding. Rory crossed her arms, feeling the familiar ridge of the crescent scar on her left wrist beneath her sleeve. She hadn't thought about Marseille in months. She hadn't thought about the way the sun hit the water there, or the way Lucien looked when he wasn't wearing a suit, or the way he'd lied to her face before vanishing into the supernatural underworld he called home. Why are you here, Lucien? I heard you were in trouble. You hear a lot of things. That's your job. And yet, I still came. He moved further into the room, navigating the obstacle course of Eva's research with an eerie grace. He stopped by the table, running a gloved finger over a stack of maps. You are staying with Eva. Temporarily. Because of him? Evan. The name tasted like bile. Rory walked past him to the small kitchenette, needing something to do with her hands. She put the kettle on. I don't need a fixer, Lucien. I need you to leave. You needed me in Avaros. You needed me when the shadows started moving on their own. He turned, leaning his hip against the table. The cane hung loose in his grip. You needed me when you decided running to London was better than facing what you are. I'm human, she snapped. The kettle began to whistle, a rising shriek that filled the silence. She slammed her hand down on the switch to kill it. I am perfectly, boringly human. Lucien pushed off the table. In two strides he was in front of her. He was taller than her by nearly a foot, looming without trying. He reached out, his hand hovering near her wrist. She flinched, but he didn't touch the scar. He just covered her hand with his. His skin was warm, hotter than it should be. You are many things, Rory. Boring is not one of them. She looked up into those mismatched eyes. The hurt was there, buried under layers of professionalism and that infuriating calm, but it was there. She remembered the last night they'd spoken. The rain had been harder then. He'd told her it was too dangerous to be near him. He'd told her he was doing it for her protection. She'd told him she wasn't a child to be managed. You left, she said quietly. You didn't explain. You just vanished. I removed the target from your back. By becoming the target yourself? Someone has to hold the line. His thumb brushed over her knuckles. The contact sent a jolt through her that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with memory. She remembered the weight of his hand there, the way he used to trace the lines of her palm when they were sitting on balconies in the south of France, pretending the world wasn't full of monsters. I didn't ask you to protect me, Lucien. I know. He sighed, a rare crack in his composure. That is why I admire you. And why I fear for you. Ptolemy meowed, rubbing against Rory's leg, breaking the spell. She pulled her hand away, wrapping her fingers around the cold ceramic of a mug. She needed the barrier. She needed the heat. You can't just show up here, she said, pouring the water. The steam rose between them. Eva has three deadbolts for a reason. Eva is currently in Cardiff visiting her mother. I checked. He took the mug she offered, their fingers brushing again. He didn't let go immediately. I am not here to intrude, Rory. I am here because the things that hunted you in Marseille have found a trail. They know you are in London. Rory felt the blood drain from her face. She looked at the door, at the locks she had just engaged. They felt flimsy now. Paper thin. How long? she asked. As long as it takes. I have a safe house. No. She set her mug down on the counter with a clink. I'm not running again. I'm not leaving Eva's flat. Then I stay here. There's nowhere to sleep. I do not require much sleep. He took a sip of the tea, his eyes never leaving hers. And the sofa looks adequate. Rory looked at the sofa. It was buried under a pile of grimoires and a throw blanket. She looked back at Lucien. He looked exhausted, now that she was really looking. There were fine lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before. The suit was immaculate, but the man inside it was worn down. You look like hell, she said. A compliment, coming from you. Don't push it. She moved past him, heading for the pile of books on the sofa. She began to clear them, stacking them on the floor. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm she couldn't suppress. He was here. He was real. And the anger she'd nursed for six months was crumbling into something sharper, something more dangerous. Lucien watched her work. He didn't offer to help. He just stood there, a sentinel in charcoal and platinum, guarding the door she had locked against the world. Rory, he said. She stopped, holding a heavy tome against her chest. What? I did not leave because I wanted to. She knew that. She had known it in her gut even while her mind screamed that he was a coward. She set the book down on the stack. I know. Good. He set his cane against the wall and loosened his tie, just a fraction. Then we understand each other. Not everything, she said. No. He looked at her, and for a moment, the half-demon mask slipped. The amber eye softened. The black one seemed less like a void and more like a shadowed room. But we have time. Rory looked at the door, then back at him. The rain lashed against the windowpane, sealing them in. The smell of curry and old paper and him surrounded her. She picked up her mug and walked to the sofa, sitting down and patting the space beside her. Don't get comfortable, she said. Lucien picked up his cane and walked over. He sat down, leaving a precise foot of space between them. Ptolemy jumped up and settled in the gap, purring loudly. I would not dream of it, Lucien said. But he didn't move away. And when Rory leaned back, her shoulder brushed against his arm. He didn't pull back. They sat in the silence of the flat, listening to the city breathe outside, two people who had parted in the rain and found each other in the storm.