Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR29XDQSGJS6AM9SCV09X4

The three deadbolts clicked open one by one, and Aurora pulled the door back expecting to find her neighbor complaining about the smell of curry again, or perhaps Eva returning early from her research trip to Cornwall. Instead, Lucien Moreau stood in the narrow hallway, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane, the other holding a bottle of wine that probably cost more than her monthly share of the rent. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sounds of Brick Lane drifted up through the thin walls—the clatter of pans from the curry house below, a motorbike growling past, someone laughing too loud on the pavement. Aurora's grip tightened on the doorframe until her knuckles went white. "No," she said. "Aurora—" "Absolutely not." She started to close the door, but Lucien's cane shot out, jamming itself between the door and the frame with a soft thunk. "Five minutes," he said. His voice was the same—that careful, cultivated accent that landed somewhere between Marseille and Mayfair, each word placed precisely where he wanted it. "That's all I'm asking." "You don't get to ask me for anything." But she didn't push harder against the door. She hated herself for that. "How did you even know I was here? Eva's supposed to be gone until Thursday." "I know." His mismatched eyes—one amber, one black as a moonless night—held hers steadily. "That's why I came now." Aurora let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "Of course. You wanted to catch me alone. Classic Lucien." "I wanted to speak with you without Eva throwing books at my head, yes." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "She has surprisingly good aim for an academic." "She was a cricket bowler at university." "That explains the bruise that lasted three weeks." Against her better judgment, Aurora stepped back from the door. Not an invitation—not exactly—but enough that he could remove his cane without it being a victory for either of them. Lucien didn't move to enter. He simply stood there, elegant and infuriating in one of his perfectly tailored charcoal suits, looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. The hallway's single bare bulb cast harsh shadows across his face, making the planes of his cheekbones look sharper, more angular. More like his father's side, probably. "You look well," he said quietly. "I look like I've been asleep for the past hour, because I was." She was suddenly aware that she was wearing Eva's oversized cardigan over a faded t-shirt, her black hair still mussed from the pillow. "Some of us work normal jobs, Lucien. Early mornings. Delivery schedules." "The Golden Empress, yes. Yu-Fei speaks highly of you." "Of course you know where I work." She rubbed at the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—an old habit, a tell she'd never managed to break. "Is there anything about my life you don't have filed away somewhere?" "I don't know if you've forgiven me," he said. "That seems like rather crucial information." The words landed like stones in still water. Aurora felt the ripples spread through her chest, her throat, settling somewhere behind her eyes where they threatened to become something more dangerous. "Come in," she said, and the words surprised her almost as much as they seemed to surprise him. "Before Mrs. Okonkwo comes out and starts asking questions about my gentleman caller." Lucien stepped past her into the flat, and Aurora closed the door behind him, sliding only one of the deadbolts home. An escape route. A reminder that he could be asked to leave at any moment. The flat was its usual chaos—Eva's books and scrolls covering every surface, research notes pinned to the walls with an organizational system that made sense only to Eva herself. Ptolemy the tabby looked up from his spot on the radiator, assessed Lucien with ancient feline judgment, and went back to sleep. "Even the cat wants nothing to do with you," Aurora said. "Cats can sense demon blood. They find it..." Lucien searched for the word. "Distasteful." "Smart cats." She didn't offer him a seat, didn't take the wine he still held. Instead, she moved to the narrow window that looked out over Brick Lane, putting the length of the cramped room between them. The glass was cold against her fingertips. February in London, and she could see her breath fogging the pane. "Say what you came to say," she told the window. She heard him set the wine bottle down on the stack of books that served as Eva's coffee table. Heard the soft tap of his cane against the floor as he shifted his weight. "I made a mistake," he said. "Six months ago. I should have told you what I was, what I am, before—" "Before I found out by watching you tear a man's throat out with your bare hands?" She turned to face him now, letting him see the anger she'd been carrying. "Yes, Lucien, that would have been the polite thing to do." "He was going to kill you." "I know that." Her voice cracked, and she hated it. "I know he was. I'm not angry that you saved my life, you insufferable man. I'm angry that I didn't know who—what—was saving it. I'm angry that you let me believe you were just some well-connected fixer with good taste in suits. I'm angry that I—" She stopped. Swallowed the rest of the sentence. But Lucien had always been too clever, too attuned to the things people didn't say. His expression shifted, something raw and vulnerable flickering beneath the careful mask he wore. "That you what?" he asked softly. "It doesn't matter." "It matters to me." "Then you should have thought about that before you lied to me for three months." She wrapped her arms around herself, Eva's cardigan suddenly not warm enough. "I told you things, Lucien. Things I'd never told anyone. About Evan, about Cardiff, about why I can't sleep with the lights off anymore. And the whole time, you were keeping this massive secret, and I felt like such a fool when I—" "You're not a fool." He took a step toward her, then stopped when she stiffened. "You're the least foolish person I've ever met. That's why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd run the calculations, weigh the risks, and decide I wasn't worth the trouble." "And you thought lying to me was a better approach?" "I thought I'd have more time." His voice was rough now, stripped of its usual polish. "I thought I could show you enough of who I am—the parts that are human, the parts that chose humanity—that when you learned the rest, it might not matter." "Everything matters." Aurora's throat ached. "That's the problem. You should have trusted me." "I was afraid." The admission seemed to cost him something. Lucien Moreau, the Frenchman, the man who moved through London's supernatural underworld like he owned it, stood in Eva's cluttered flat and admitted to fear. "I've never been afraid of anything the way I was afraid of losing you." Ptolemy chose that moment to yawn loudly, breaking the tension in a way that made Aurora almost laugh. Almost. "You can't just show up after six months," she said, quieter now. "You can't bring expensive wine and say pretty things and expect it to fix everything." "I don't expect anything." He met her eyes, and she saw it then—the exhaustion he usually hid so well, the loneliness that she suspected mirrored her own. "I just needed you to know that I'm sorry. That if I could do it differently, I would. That not a day has passed since you walked away that I haven't thought about you." "You could have called." "Would you have answered?" She wanted to say yes. The word sat on her tongue, bitter and sweet at once, but she couldn't force it out. Because the honest answer was that she didn't know. Some nights she'd stared at her phone, willing it to ring, and other nights she'd been grateful for the silence. "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know anything anymore." Lucien nodded slowly. He reached for his cane, and Aurora felt something cold settle in her chest—he was leaving, this was over, six months of silence would stretch into forever. "Wait," she heard herself say. He paused. Turned back. "The wine," she said. "You might as well leave it. Eva will appreciate it when she gets back." "Of course." But he didn't move toward the door. "Aurora—" "Rory." The correction slipped out before she could stop it. "My friends call me Rory." Something shifted in his face. Not quite hope—he was too careful for hope—but something close to it. "Rory," he repeated, as if learning the shape of it. "There's tea," she said. "If you want to stay. I can't promise conversation, but—" "Tea would be perfect." She moved past him toward the tiny kitchen, and for a moment, their shoulders almost touched. The air between them felt charged, electric, full of all the things they still hadn't said. He smelled like sandalwood and winter rain, and she remembered suddenly what it had been like to stand this close to him, before she knew about the demon blood in his veins, before she understood why his eyes didn't match. It had felt like safety. Like coming home. Maybe that was the cruelest part of all—that even knowing what he was, some treacherous part of her still felt that way. "Lucien," she said, stopping in the kitchen doorway. "I can't promise anything. I can't promise forgiveness, or a second chance, or—or whatever you came here hoping for." "I know." "I'm serious. This doesn't fix things." "I know," he said again. But he was smiling now, just barely, and his mismatched eyes were warmer than she'd ever seen them. "But you're making tea. That's a start." Aurora turned away before he could see her own smile threatening to break through. She filled the kettle, set it on the hob, and listened to Lucien settle into Eva's armchair with a soft sigh. Outside, Brick Lane hummed with its usual chaos. Inside, something quieter began to unfold—tentative as new growth, fragile as glass, but real. It was a start. And for now, that would have to be enough.