Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFTGP126TKKGGFVK94PY9D

The rain lashed against the windows of Eva’s flat, the drumming sound mixing with the distant hum of London traffic below. Rory sat curled on the sofa with Ptolemy purring in her lap, absently scrolling through her phone while the storm rattled the pane. The cat’s ears pricked up before she heard it—a sharp knock at the door. Three deadbolts. Whoever it was would need patience. Ptolemy bolted as Rory stood, rubbing her hands against her jeans before peering through the peephole. Her breath caught. Lucien stood on the other side, soaked through, his platinum hair darkened by rain and falling in loose strands across his forehead. A black coat clung to his frame, water dripping from the hem onto the worn hallway carpet. His mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—flicked up as if sensing her gaze through the door. Rory’s fingers hesitated on the lock. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been leaning against the bar at Silas’ place, watching her with that unreadable half-smile while she walked out without looking back. That had been months ago. Another knock. She exhaled, then flipped the deadbolts open one by one. The door swung inward, letting in the damp chill of the hallway. Lucien’s gaze traveled over her—messy black hair, old college sweater, the crescent scar on her left wrist just visible beneath the pushed-up sleeve—before settling on her face. “Rory.” His voice was the same—smooth, faintly accented. It did things to her pulse she refused to acknowledge. “You’re dripping on the floor,” she said. His mouth quirked. “That I am.” A beat of silence. Water pooled at his feet. Rory stepped aside. “Come in before you flood the landing.” Lucien swept past her, bringing the scent of rain, cologne, and something darker—smoke and iron, the faint hint of the demonic. His coat brushed her arm as he passed, close enough that she caught the damp heat radiating from him. She shut the door, latching the deadbolts again before turning. Lucien stood in the middle of the cramped living space, taking in the stacks of books, the takeaway containers on the coffee table, the wilting plant Eva kept forgetting to water. His cane—ivory-handled, always within reach—tapped lightly against the floor. “So,” Rory crossed her arms. “Are we doing the part where I ask what you’re doing here, or are you skipping to the mysterious errand that requires my help?” Lucien turned, rainwater still gleaming on his cheekbones. “It’s good to see you too.” She refused to let that sting. “We’re not doing small talk, Luc.” “No,” he agreed quietly. “We never were very good at that.” A flash of memory—his mouth on hers in the dim light of Silas’ back room, hands tangled in her hair, the way he’d whispered her name like it was something sacred. Rory pushed it away. “Why are you here?” she asked again. Lucien sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “I need your help.” “Shocking.” His gaze sharpened. “There’s a book—an old grimoire, stolen from a collector in Prague. It’s dangerous, Rory. More than the usual fare.” She snorted. “So call one of your other contacts.” “None of them think like you do.” The compliment, delivered in that low voice, did something treacherous to her ribs. Lucien took a step closer, rainwater still clinging to his lashes. “You know how these things work. The buyer won’t be human. If they crack the cipher—” “I’m out, Luc.” Rory forced herself to hold his gaze. “No more smuggling, no more favors. I deliver noodles now, remember?” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.” The silence stretched between them, thick with all the things they hadn’t said. The way he’d let her walk away. The way she hadn’t asked him to follow. Outside, the wind howled against the glass. Rory exhaled. “Tell me about the cipher.” Something flickered in Lucien’s eyes—relief, triumph, maybe something softer—before he schooled his expression into that cool neutrality she knew too well. “It’s written in a blend of Enochian and—” “—Etruscan sigils, obviously,” Rory finished, walking toward the shelf where Eva kept her reference texts. “Let me guess, it’s got silver-edged pages and smells like rotten honey?” Lucien stilled. “You’ve seen it.” “No.” She pulled down a thick volume, dust drifting in the lamplight. “But I know who has.” His cane tapped once, sharp against the floor. “Rory.” She turned back to him, the book heavy in her hands. His gaze was dark, intent—the way it always was when the game was on. For a heartbeat, she let herself remember how it felt to be the focus of that look. Then she tossed the book onto the sofa. “You’re buying me dinner first.” A slow smile curved Lucien’s mouth. “Noodles?” “Obviously.” The rain continued its relentless rhythm against the windows as he laughed, low and familiar, and Rory let herself—just for a moment—pretend this was how it always was.