Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFQ1DJTJRJW6TG6F6WWCEQ

The knock came at 2:37 AM. Rory sat up in bed, heart hammering against her ribs. She'd been dreaming of Evan—not the worst dreams, but the ordinary ones, the ones where he was just there, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, smiling that smile that used to make her feel like the center of his universe. She'd been trying to leave him in the dream too, packing a suitcase in the dark while he slept, but her hands kept shaking and the zipper wouldn't close. The second knock was firmer, more insistent. Not Evan. Evan wouldn't knock like that—he'd have kicked the door in by now, or at least shouted through the letterbox. Rory swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet finding the worn patch of carpet between the bed and the door. She'd fallen asleep in her clothes again—jeans and a thin cotton shirt that smelled faintly of sesame oil and soy sauce from her shift at the restaurant. "Who is it?" she called, her voice rough with sleep. "It's me." The voice was low, accented with the careful precision of someone who'd learned English as a second language. French, maybe, or something from further south. Rory's hand froze on the deadbolt. She knew that voice. She'd spent three months trying to forget it, three months of waking up reaching for someone who wasn't there, of walking past the Golden Empress and remembering the way he'd leaned against the counter, watching her with those impossible eyes—one amber, one black as a starless night. "Lucien?" She tested the name, unsure if she wanted him to confirm it. There was a pause, just long enough to make her wonder if she'd imagined the whole thing. Then: "I need to talk to you, Aurora." She closed her eyes. Only he called her that—Aurora. Everyone else used Rory, or Carter when they were being formal. But Lucien had always insisted on the full name, rolling it off his tongue like he was tasting something sweet. He'd said it made her sound like a constellation. "What time is it?" She knew the answer, but she needed a moment to think, to gather herself. She hadn't seen him since that night at the club, since she'd walked away from him and the life he'd offered her, the life she wasn't sure she could survive. "Does it matter?" His voice was closer now, like he'd pressed his face against the door. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important." Rory leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door. She could smell him through the grain—cologne and something darker, something that reminded her of old books and secrets. "You could have called." "I did. You didn't answer." She hadn't checked her phone in hours. She'd been avoiding it, avoiding everything that might remind her of the choices she'd made, the bridges she'd burned. "What do you want, Lucien?" There was a sound like a sigh, or maybe just the shifting of weight from one foot to another. "To explain. To apologize. To ask for your help." "Help with what?" She was already reaching for the deadbolts, her fingers moving of their own accord. She told herself it was curiosity, that she just wanted to know what could be so important that he'd come to her at this hour. She told herself she didn't care about him anymore, that the hollow feeling in her chest was just exhaustion. "The kind of help that could get you killed if the wrong people find out." That stopped her hand. She stepped back from the door, suddenly aware of how she must look—hair tangled from sleep, eyes probably bloodshot, clothes wrinkled and smelling of work. "I don't do that anymore, Lucien. I told you that." "I know what you told me." His voice was softer now, almost gentle. "But I also know you, Aurora. I know that you can't walk away from people who need you. Not really." The words hit like a physical blow. She'd spent the last three months trying to convince herself that she could be someone else, someone ordinary, someone who delivered Chinese food and paid her rent on time and didn't know about the things that went bump in the London night. Someone who didn't have blood on her hands that would never wash clean. She unlocked the door. Lucien stood in the hallway, looking like he'd stepped out of a different world. His platinum blond hair was slicked back as always, his charcoal suit perfectly tailored, his ivory-handled cane held loosely in one hand. But there were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before, and his tie was loosened at the throat, as if he'd been wearing it for too many hours straight. "May I come in?" he asked, and she stepped aside to let him pass. The flat was tiny—one room that served as living room and kitchen, a bedroom barely large enough for the bed, a bathroom with tiles that were probably white under the accumulated grime. Eva's books and scrolls were stacked everywhere, research notes pinned to the walls with thumbtacks. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, lifted his head from his favorite spot on the armchair and regarded Lucien with the disdain that only cats and very old men could muster. Rory closed the door and leaned against it, crossing her arms over her chest. "You have five minutes before I call a cab to take you back to whatever hole you crawled out of." Lucien turned to face her, and for a moment he just looked at her—really looked, the way he used to when they were alone together, like he was trying to memorize every detail. "You cut your hair," he said finally. She lifted a hand to the ends that now brushed her shoulders instead of her shoulder blades. "It was time for a change." "It's beautiful." He said it simply, without the heat she remembered from before, but she felt the words like a touch all the same. "You're beautiful." "Don't." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. "Don't do that. Don't pretend like you care about my hair when you show up in the middle of the night talking about death and danger." Lucien's mouth tightened, and for a second she saw the cold, calculating man she'd glimpsed in the shadows of the supernatural underworld, the one who brokered information and made problems disappear. "I'm not pretending. I never pretended with you, Aurora. That was the problem." She pushed off from the door, needing to put some distance between them, to create a barrier of space and furniture. She moved to the window, pretending to check that the latch was secure. "What do you want, Lucien?" He took a step toward her, then seemed to think better of it and stopped. "There's a woman. A witch. She's in trouble." "Witches are always in trouble." She kept her voice flat, disinterested. "That's what happens when you meddle with things humans aren't meant to understand." "This is different." He moved to the armchair, carefully moving Ptolemy aside so he could sit down. The cat protested with a yowl but settled on Lucien's lap when he began to stroke her absently. "Her name is Soraya. She's been researching something—an artifact, a book, I'm not sure. The point is, someone wants it. Someone dangerous." "And you want me to what? Steal it for you?" She finally turned to face him, and the look on his face stopped her cold. He looked tired, truly tired, in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. "I want you to help me keep it safe," he said quietly. "And to keep Soraya alive." Rory sank onto the edge of the couch, suddenly feeling the weight of the last three months pressing down on her. "I told you I was out, Lucien. I told you I couldn't do this anymore." "You also told me you loved me." His voice was gentle, but there was an edge to it, a challenge. "You told me that you'd never leave me, that we were in this together." She flinched as if he'd struck her. "I was wrong." "Were you?" He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, still stroking the cat. "Or were you just scared?" "Scared?" The word came out like a laugh, bitter and broken. "You have no idea what I've been through, what I've done. You think I can just walk away from that? You think I can forget the look on Evan's face when I—" She stopped herself, pressing her lips together until they hurt. She hadn't meant to say that name, hadn't meant to bring him into this conversation. Evan was a closed door, a chapter she'd slammed shut and boarded over. Lucien's eyes had gone very dark, the amber almost swallowed by black. "What happened with Evan?" "Nothing." She stood up abruptly, needing to move, to do something with the sudden rush of adrenaline. "It doesn't matter. The point is, I can't help you, Lucien. I won't." He stood too, moving with that liquid grace she remembered, the way he could cross a room without seeming to move at all. "You're still the same person, Aurora. You still have the same skills, the same instincts. Walking away from them doesn't make them disappear." "Maybe I don't want those skills anymore." She was shouting now, and she didn't care. "Maybe I want to be normal, to have a normal life where I don't have to worry about witches and artifacts and people who want to kill me!" "Normal is overrated." He was right in front of her now, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, smell his cologne. "And you were never meant for normal, Aurora. You were meant for extraordinary things." She wanted to push him away, to tell him he was wrong, to run from the truth in his words. But instead she found herself stepping closer, her hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palms. "Why did you really come here, Lucien?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Was it really about this witch, or did you just miss me?" He caught her wrists, his fingers warm against her skin. "Both," he admitted. "Though if I'm honest, the witch can probably take care of herself. It's you I'm worried about." "Me?" She tried to pull away, but his grip was gentle but firm. "I'm fine. I'm safe." "No, you're not." He brought her wrists up to his mouth, brushing his lips across the sensitive skin. "You're hiding, Aurora. You're hiding from me, from yourself, from everything that makes you who you are." The words should have made her angry, should have made her defensive. Instead they made something inside her ache, a longing so deep it was physical. "And what if I don't want to be who I am? What if I want to be someone else?" "Then you'll be lying to yourself for the rest of your life." He released her wrists but didn't step back, his hands hovering just inches from her skin. "And you'll never be happy. Not really." She wanted to argue with him, to tell him he was wrong, to prove that she could be ordinary, that she could be satisfied with a life of deliveries and rent payments and pretending the supernatural world didn't exist. But she couldn't. Because she'd tried, and she'd failed, and every night she'd lain awake wondering what Lucien was doing, if he was safe, if he thought about her at all. "I miss you," she said, the words surprising them both. "I miss you so much it hurts sometimes." "I know." His voice was rough with emotion. "I miss you too." She lifted her hand, touching his face, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips. "I'm scared, Lucien. I'm scared of what I might become if I go back to that life." "I'll be with you," he promised. "I won't let you become something you're not." She searched his face, looking for the lie, the manipulation, the hidden agenda. But all she found was honesty, and something that looked suspiciously like love. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll help you. But if we do this, we do it my way. No more secrets, no more lies. We're partners, or we're nothing." Lucien's face lit up with a smile that made her breath catch. "Partners," he agreed. "Though I was hoping we might be something more than that eventually." She stepped into his arms, resting her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. "We'll see," she murmured. "We'll see." Outside, the city was just beginning to wake up, the first hints of dawn lightening the sky. But in Eva's tiny flat, time seemed to stand still, two people finding their way back to each other in the space between heartbeats. Rory closed her eyes and let herself believe, just for a moment, that maybe she could have it all—the extraordinary life, the love, the chance to be who she was meant to be. Maybe some doors, once closed, could be opened again. And maybe, just maybe, she was ready to step through.