Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRB9PFY9B00ZMFNQNFBHB0

The door swung open, and Aurora's stomach dropped. Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, one gloved hand resting atop his ivory-handled cane, the other holding a paper bag that smelled of fresh pastries. His platinum hair caught the dim light from the stairwell, slicked back with its usual precision. The mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—fixed on her with an intensity that made her throat tighten. "You changed your hair," he said, his French accent curling around the words. Rory's hand tightened on the doorframe. She'd gone back to black two months ago, letting the temporary auburn fade. Two months since she'd last seen him. Two months since he'd walked away after telling her that what they'd shared during the Southwark incident had been a mistake, a lapse in judgment brought on by adrenaline and proximity to death. "What are you doing here?" Her voice came out sharper than she'd intended. "May I come in?" He tilted his head toward the interior of Eva's flat. "Or would you prefer to have this conversation where Mrs. Patel can hear every word?" The neighbor's door across the hall stood slightly ajar, as it always did when unusual visitors arrived. Rory bit back a curse and stepped aside, pulling the door wider. Lucien moved past her with that familiar fluid grace, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the drizzle that had started half an hour ago. The scent of his cologne—something expensive with notes of bergamot and cedar—filled the cramped entryway. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, materialized from the depths of the flat and wound between Lucien's legs, purring like a small motor. "Traitor," Rory muttered at the cat as she shoved the door closed and worked the three deadbolts. "He has excellent taste." Lucien set the paper bag on the narrow table wedged between stacks of Eva's research books. "Pain au chocolat from that bakery in South Kensington. I remembered you liked them." "I can't be bought with pastries, Lucien." "I am not trying to buy you, ma chère." Something flickered across his face, gone before she could identify it. "Though I confess bribery would be simpler than what I actually need to do." She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly aware that she was wearing her rattiest Cardiff University sweatshirt and that her hair was piled into a messy knot on top of her head. Lucien, meanwhile, looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread on understated luxury. The asymmetry between them had always been there—the half-demon information broker in his tailored suits and the delivery driver who smelled of bicycle grease and dim sum. "Then what do you need?" she asked. He studied her for a long moment, his weight shifting slightly onto the cane. The black eye caught the light from Eva's floor lamp, rendering it completely opaque, while the amber one remained warm and almost vulnerable. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him in the first place—the way those mismatched eyes could convey depths of feeling he'd never put into words. "I need to apologize." Rory blinked. "Sorry, what?" "I said things. After Southwark. Things that were—" He paused, and she watched him search for words in a way she'd never seen before. Lucien Moreau, who spoke four languages fluently and could negotiate with demon lords and vampire coteries with equal ease, struggled to complete a sentence. "Untrue. Cowardly, perhaps." "Cowardly." She tasted the word, found it bitter. "You told me kissing me was a mistake. That getting involved would compromise your position as a neutral party. That it was better to end things before they began." The words came faster now, two months of hurt compressed into sharp syllables. "You were very eloquent about it, actually. Very rational." "Yes." His jaw tightened. "I was all of those things." "So what changed?" "You nearly died last week." The bluntness of it hit her like a physical blow. She'd known he had sources everywhere in London's supernatural underworld, but she hadn't realized he'd heard about the binding circle incident in Whitechapel. Eva had insisted it wasn't that serious, that the containment wards had held, that the rogue warlock had been dealt with before anyone got seriously hurt. Rory's singed jacket and the cut on her cheek that still hadn't quite healed said otherwise. "How did you—" "I know everything that happens in this city." He took a step closer, the cane tapping softly against Eva's threadbare carpet. "Everything that matters, at least. And when I heard that you were in that warehouse when the circle collapsed, when I heard that you'd walked into the binding to pull Eva out—" He stopped. Drew a breath. "I realized that rationality is worth nothing if you're dead." Rory's heart hammered against her ribs. "You didn't call. You didn't come." "I told myself I had no right. That I had made my position clear, and showing up at hospital would only confuse matters." The amber eye held hers. "But it seems I am not as good at staying away as I believed." "So you waited five days and brought pastries." "Yes." "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." "I am aware." They stood there in Eva's cramped flat, surrounded by towers of books on demonology and ancient languages, while Ptolemy continued to purr and the curry house below pumped turmeric-scented air through the floorboards. The history between them—the three months of carefully orchestrated encounters, the night in Southwark when they'd finally given in, the morning after when he'd pulled away—sat heavy in the space between their bodies. "You hurt me," Rory said quietly. "I know you thought you were being noble or professional or whatever, but you hurt me, Lucien." "I know." He set the cane aside, leaning it against the table, and closed the remaining distance between them. Close enough now that she could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the barely perceptible looseness in his collar that suggested he'd lost weight. "I hurt myself as well, if that matters." "It doesn't." But even as she said it, she knew it was a lie. His hand came up slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, he traced the healing cut on her cheek with his thumb, the touch feather-light. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "This... vulnerability. It's not something my father's blood encourages." "You managed it once before." "For approximately twelve hours, and then I panicked." A bitter smile crossed his face. "Not my finest moment." "No." "I am likely to panic again. I am likely to be difficult and closed-off and to prioritize self-preservation over emotional honesty." His thumb moved to her jaw. "But I would like to try. If you'll let me." Rory studied his face—the sharp cheekbones, the mismatched eyes, the mouth that had kissed her senseless in a Southwark alley while sirens wailed in the distance. She thought about self-preservation, about the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist from when she'd learned that some things were worth the risk of getting hurt. She thought about Evan, about running to London, about learning to trust again. "The pastries are a good start," she said finally. Relief flooded his expression, so naked and unguarded that it made her chest ache. "I should have led with them, yes?" "Probably." She reached up and straightened his already-perfect collar, just to have something to do with her hands. "I have conditions." "Name them." "No more disappearing when things get complicated. No more rational speeches about maintaining distance." She met his eyes. "And if you're going to panic, you panic where I can see you. Deal?" "Deal." He leaned down, slowly enough that she could stop him if she wanted to, and pressed his forehead against hers. "Though I make no promises about the panicking. My track record is abysmal." "I noticed." They stood like that, breathing the same air, until Ptolemy meowed loudly and wound between their legs again, demanding attention. Rory laughed, the sound surprising her with its lightness, and Lucien's mouth curved into a genuine smile—rare enough that she wanted to memorize the shape of it. "You're still an idiot," she told him. "Yes," he agreed. "But I am your idiot now, if you'll have me." She kissed him instead of answering, and he tasted like rain and relief and second chances.