Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNG54PGV1ATXAV1MVN4FN7E

The knock at the door was sharp, precise—three quick raps that made Rory’s fingers freeze over the kettle she’d just set to boil. Eva wasn’t due back for hours, and no one else bothered with the formality of knocking. The curry house downstairs had long since closed, leaving the flat in an uneasy silence. Ptolemy, sprawled across a pile of Eva’s research notes, lifted his head and flicked an ear. Rory wiped her hands on her jeans and moved toward the door, the floorboards creaking underfoot. Through the peephole, the hallway light caught the platinum blond of slicked-back hair, the sharp line of a charcoal suit. Her breath hitched. Lucien. She hadn’t seen him in months—not since the night she’d walked out of his office and into the rain, leaving behind the scent of bergamot and the weight of his silence. Her fingers hovered over the deadbolts. Three locks, all engaged. She could pretend she wasn’t home. Another knock. “Aurora,” came his voice, smooth and low, the French accent curling around her name like it always did. “I know you’re there.” She exhaled through her nose and undid the locks. The door swung open, and there he stood, cane in hand, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse jump. He looked the same as ever: impeccable, unruffled, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You’re late,” she said, crossing her arms. His eyebrow arched. “For?” “The part where you vanish for half a year and then show up like nothing happened.” Lucien leaned slightly on his cane, the ivory handle catching the dim light. “I had business.” “Business.” She scoffed. “Right.” He studied her, his gaze lingering on the crescent scar on her wrist before flicking back up. “Are you going to invite me in, or do we have this conversation in the hallway?” Rory hesitated, then stepped aside. The flat felt smaller with him in it. He moved with practiced ease, his cane tapping softly against the floor as he took in the mess of books and scrolls. Ptolemy, ever the traitor, stretched and trotted over to rub against Lucien’s leg. “Still collecting strays, I see,” Lucien murmured, scratching the cat behind the ears. “He’s Eva’s.” “Mm.” He straightened, turning to face her. “You look well.” She didn’t answer. The kettle whistled in the kitchen, a shrill interruption. “Tea?” she asked, already retreating. “If you’re offering.” She busied herself with mugs, her back to him, listening to the quiet sounds of him moving through the flat. The scrape of a chair. The rustle of papers. The weight of his presence was impossible to ignore. “Why are you here, Luc?” she asked, pouring hot water over the tea leaves. Silence. Then, closer than she expected, his voice: “I heard about Evan.” Her hands stilled. He was standing just behind her now, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint spice of his cologne. She didn’t turn around. “What about him?” “That he’s back in London.” She forced a laugh. “And you came to warn me? How gallant.” “I came,” he said, his voice dropping, “because I wanted to see you.” The admission hung between them, raw and unexpected. Rory turned slowly, mug in hand, and found him closer than she’d realized. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “You could’ve called,” she said. “Would you have answered?” She didn’t have a response for that. Lucien reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he took the mug. His touch sent a jolt through her, familiar and electric. “You left,” he said quietly. “You let me.” He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “I thought it was what you wanted.” Rory looked away, her throat tight. “Maybe it was.” “And now?” She met his gaze again. “I don’t know.” The air between them was charged, thick with everything unsaid. Lucien set the mug aside, his cane propped against the counter, and took a step closer. His hand lifted, hesitating just before it touched her face. “May I?” She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she nodded. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, feather-light. “I missed you,” he murmured. The words unraveled something in her chest. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut. “This is a bad idea,” she whispered. “Probably.” When she opened her eyes, he was smiling—that rare, genuine smile that softened the edges of him. Rory let out a shaky breath. “You’re impossible.” “So I’ve been told.” And then, because she was tired of fighting it, she kissed him. His lips were warm, yielding, his hand sliding into her hair to pull her closer. The taste of him was intoxicating—dark coffee and something faintly metallic, the hint of his demon heritage. She fisted her hands in his suit jacket, anchoring herself as the world tilted. When they broke apart, Lucien rested his forehead against hers, his breathing uneven. “Stay,” she said, the word slipping out before she could stop it. He pulled back just enough to search her face. “Are you sure?” No. Yes. “Stay,” she repeated. His thumb brushed her lower lip. “As you wish.” Outside, the rain began to fall, soft against the windowpane. Inside, the kettle cooled, forgotten.