Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR9C3MGCPYCR6NYDYTBJJT

Aurora’s hand trembled on the cold brass knob as she swung the door open a crack, expecting perhaps a delivery or another of Eva’s exasperated texts about book reorganization. Instead, the hallway’s dim light caught the sharp line of a tailored charcoal suit and the glint of an ivory-handled cane. Ptolemy, perched on the threshold, arched his back and hissed. Aurora sucked in a breath. Lucien Moreau stood before her. He regarded her with those mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—like a challenge and an apology wrapped in a single gaze. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, flawless even under the flicker of the overhead bulb. He held the cane at his side, blade concealed but ever-present in its promise. A light drizzle clung to the shoulders of his jacket, tiny beads of rain clinging like reluctant tears. “Aurora,” he said softly, voice threaded with concern and something dangerously like regret. “May I come in?” She blinked. Words stalled behind her ribcage. The hallway felt narrower, the piles of books and scrolls pressing in. Eva’s flat had become a labyrinth of research—runes, incantations, herbal sketches—but right now, it felt like a cage. “Lucien.” Her voice came out cool, measured. She stepped back, gesturing with her free hand. “Do you have the wrong address? Eva’s not in.” He spread his hands in a slow, conciliatory motion. “She left for the archives this morning. I know. I came for you.” Her heart thudded against her sternum. Came for her. Those words ricocheted through her mind, colliding with memories she’d tried to file away—midnight walks beneath Cardiff’s ancient walls, his laughter echoing off cobblestones, the brush of his fingers against her scarred wrist. She forced her eyes from his to the cat, but Ptolemy had retreated to a stack of dusty tomes, ears flattened. “You’re wet,” she said finally, voice brittle. “You need a towel.” He closed the gap in one smooth step. The hallway tilting as he entered, the rain-soaked wood creaking under his polished shoes. Aurora led him to the tiny bathroom, its tiles etched with mildew. She found a towel, dampened from a previous spill, and pressed it into his hands. “Thank you.” He dried his shoulders, every movement controlled. “I—I know you’re angry.” She leaned against the sink, arms crossed. “Are you going to stand there and apologize, or should I fetch Eva so she can mediate?” A flicker of something—amusement?—danced in his amber eye. He set the towel aside. “No third party. Just you and me.” She swallowed. Her throat felt raw. “Why are you here, Lucien?” She tried to keep reproach out of her tone, but it crept through. “You vanished. No letters. No messages. Just…gone.” He paused, gaze drifting to the chipped porcelain sink. “I had to go undercover, Aurora. Avaros affairs. It was urgent.” “Urgent,” she echoed, bitter. “Always something more important than me.” She turned away. The scar on her left wrist itched; she absently tugged at the sleeve of her cardigan. “You left without so much as telling me where you were going.” He stepped closer, too close. His tailored suit brushed her cardigan, the scent of his cologne—oakwood and something darker—brushed her senses. “I thought I’d spare you the danger.” His voice was low, earnest. “I thought I’d come back in time.” Her chest tightened. “In time for what? To pretend nothing happened?” He reached out, fingers hovering over her arm. She tensed, expecting the contact would burn. Instead, a lull of warmth spread through her. “I’ve missed you,” he said. “Every day.” Her pulse hammered. She stared at his hand, poised in that fragile space between them. She felt the pull of him, the gravity of his presence. And then memory washed over her: the night he kissed her under the glow of Cardiff’s castle lights, his thumb brushing her scar as if memorizing its curve. The ache returned, raw and unblinking. “You’re here now,” she whispered, voice smaller than she intended. “Why?” He lowered his hand, an apology in the curve of his fingers. “Because I love you, Aurora. And I know saying it doesn’t erase the hurt, but I can’t leave things unfinished.” Her breath caught. She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “Love,” she repeated, tasting the word on her tongue. It felt both foreign and inevitable. “You use that word like it shields you from consequences.” He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, grief lay in the black depths. “I’m sorry for disappearing. I’m sorry for not trusting you with the truth. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now it only hurt you more.” She pressed her back against the wall, crossing her arms again—but this time, not in defense so much as to hold herself together. “You made big promises, Lucien. You said you’d always come back.” “I did come back.” He stepped forward, voice urgent. “Right now.” Her gaze flicked to the door. The triple deadbolts. The clang of metal she’d grown too accustomed to. She released her arms and took a breath, steadying herself. “All right. You’re here. Let’s talk.” He nodded, relief softening his features. He gestured toward the narrow living area, where piles of books formed a canyon around an overstuffed armchair. Aurora motioned for him to sit. Ptolemy emerged from behind a stack of grimoires, tail flicking as he watched the intruder warily. Lucien lowered himself onto the edge of the armchair as though wary of breaking the fragile truce. Aurora perched herself on the windowsill, legs folded beneath her, the city’s distant glow painting her face in streaks of orange and purple. A silence stretched between them, thick with memories. Finally, Lucien spoke. “I was working on a treaty with the Avaros emissary. Demons from my father’s realm. There was treachery—an assassination attempt. I had to disappear, to keep you safe from reprisals.” She scoffed softly. “You think I wouldn’t have stood by you? I may be human, but I’m not helpless.” He closed his eyes, voice tight. “I should have given you the choice.” She stared at him, her throat raw. The hurt flared up again. “You don’t get to decide for me.” He lifted a hand, fingertips brushing his temple. “I know. I was an arrogant fool.” She watched him struggle with guilt, the tension in his slender shoulders. Daylight would have made the room bright, but tonight the only light came from a single lamp, casting long shadows. She felt the space between them narrowing, the distance of months dissolving. Ptolemy hopped onto the armrest, pressing against Lucien’s side. The cat’s purr vibrated through his suit. Lucien reached down, stroking Ptolemy’s head. Aurora’s chest tightened watching that simple gesture. Even the cat recognized him. “I missed this,” Lucien murmured, looking from the cat to Aurora. “Missed you.” Her pulse thundered. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. “Why now? Why show up without warning? Eva was out of town.” He leaned forward, urgency in his every movement. “Because I couldn’t wait any longer. I tried sending messages—runes, encrypted notes—but nothing got through. I had to see you to know if we can move forward. To see if you still…” He swallowed. “If you still want me.” Her breath caught. She leaned back, the windowsill cool beneath her. London’s hum filtered through the cracked window. She thought of the nights she’d lain awake, listening for his name in the wind. She thought of the scar on her wrist—every time she traced it, she remembered the accident, the fear, and the reassurance of his hand over hers in Cardiff’s hospital corridor. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, resolve shone in her bright blue gaze. “I want you,” she said. “But it’s not just about wanting. It’s about trust. You need to prove you’re not going to vanish again.” His heterochromatic eyes softened—a fragile vulnerability that made her heart twist. “Tell me what I need to do.” She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders ebbing. “Stay. Be honest. No more secrets. No more disappearing acts.” He nodded, relief flooding his expression. “I promise.” She watched as he held out his hand, ivory-handle cane forgotten at his side. “Come here,” she said, voice gentle. He rose, stepping closer. Aurora slipped from the sill and took his hand. The warmth of his skin seeped into her, steadying the storm inside her chest. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his amber eye flicking to her scar. “Tell me everything,” she whispered. He dipped his head, thumb tracing the crescent-shaped mark. “Everything,” he repeated. “Starting now.” And as the rain tapped the windowpane and Ptolemy curled around their feet, Aurora felt the fragile promise of new beginnings unfurl in her chest. The past remained scarred and jagged, but in this small, cluttered flat above a curry house on Brick Lane, they would learn to build trust again—one honest word at a time.