Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSWEX6FKQ561PSNVKWV3PFK

The third deadbolt clicked, then the second, then the first. Aurora watched the door swing inward, her heart already climbing into her throat before she saw who stood on the other side. Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe like he owned the building, cane tucked under one arm, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the drizzle that had been plaguing East London all afternoon. Water droplets clung to his platinum hair. One amber eye caught the dim hallway light; the other, black as pitch, seemed to drink it in. "You're not Eva." "No." She gripped the edge of the door, knuckles white. "She's at work." "Ah." He tilted his head, studying her face with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "Then I suppose I'll have to settle for you." "I didn't realise settling was your style." A smile ghosted across his mouth, there and gone. "It isn't." Ptolemy wound between their ankles, the tabby's tail flicking against Aurora's shin. She stepped back, half-turning away in what she hoped looked like indifference rather than retreat. "Well? Are you coming in or planning to waterboard me with small talk through the threshold?" Lucien straightened, crossed the entrance in two smooth strides, and shut the door behind him with a soft click. The flat suddenly felt half its size. Books and scrolls crowded every surface — Eva's endless research into things Aurora still didn't fully understand — and the scent of old paper mixed with the curry rising from the restaurant below. She'd grown used to it over the months. Now the familiar smell turned her stomach. "You've been avoiding me." "Have I?" "Three messages, Rory. Two weeks." "I've been busy." She moved toward the kitchen counter, putting distance between them, and busied herself with the electric kettle. Anything to keep her hands occupied. "Deliveries. Eva's been — Eva's been needing help with things." "Things." "Research things. Dangerous things. You know how she gets." A soft thump as Lucien set his cane against the overcrowded bookshelf. His footsteps, impossibly quiet for a man his size, drew closer. "You're lying." "I'm not." "You always were terrible at it." The amusement in his voice made her jaw tighten. "Your pulse jumps. Just there — at the hollow of your throat." Aurora's hand flew up before she could stop it, fingers pressing against the spot he'd named. She caught herself, dropped her hand, turned to face him with the kettle clutched like a weapon between them. "What do you want, Lucien?" The question hung in the air. Outside, a car splashed through a puddle on Brick Lane. Ptolemy leaped onto the windowsill, watching the rain streak the glass. "I wanted to discuss a matter with Eva. Professional interest." He smoothed his tie, the gesture almost nervous. Almost. "But since you're here —" "I'm not the one who left." The words escaped before she could cage them. She watched them land, watched the tightening around his mismatched eyes that might have been surprise or guilt or nothing at all. "Ah." He exhaled the syllable like he'd been holding it for days. "So that's what this is." "I don't know what this is. You tell me. You're the one who disappeared after —" She caught herself, turned back to the kettle, flicked the switch harder than necessary. "After everything. No explanation. No nothing. Just gone." "I had my reasons." "Clearly." "You wouldn't understand." "Then make me understand." She faced him again, arms crossing over her chest. The defensive posture felt childish, but she couldn't seem to help it. "You owe me that much." "Do I?" "We were —" She stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I thought we were something." The silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of rain against the window. Lucien's expression remained unreadable, that particular mask he wore when he wanted the world to see nothing of what churned beneath. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped. Softer. Almost human. "You thought correctly." "Then why?" "Because you deserve better than what I can give." Aurora laughed, the sound bitter and sharp. "That's such horseshit." His eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?" "You heard me." She stepped closer, anger finally overtaking the ache in her chest. "That's the line, isn't it? The noble sacrifice. 'I'm doing this for you, Rory. I'm leaving because I care.' Do you have any idea how patronising that is?" "I wasn't trying to —" "You don't get to decide what I deserve." She was in his space now, close enough to see the faint scar beside his amber eye, close enough to smell the sandalwood and rain that clung to his jacket. "That's not your call. It's mine." "Even if the choice leads somewhere dangerous?" "Everything in my life has been dangerous since I met Eva. Since I met you." She spread her hands, helpless. "At least let me choose the danger I want." Something shifted behind his eyes. The black one seemed to swallow the light; the amber one burned with it. His hand came up, almost touching her face, before he caught himself and let it fall. "You make it very difficult to do the right thing." "Maybe the right thing is wrong." "Rory —" "Six months." Her voice cracked on the words. "Six months, Lucien. I waited. I told myself you'd come back, that you'd explain, that there was something I wasn't seeing. And you just — you never —" "I know." The words were barely a whisper. "I know, and I'm —" "If you say sorry, I swear to God I'll throw you out." A pause. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. A genuine sound, rough at the edges, that transformed his face into something younger and more vulnerable than she'd ever seen it. "Noted." Ptolemy chirped from the windowsill, apparently deciding the tension had reached acceptable levels. The cat jumped down and wound between their feet again, purring like a small engine. Aurora became suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Of the heat radiating from him despite the damp chill of the London evening. Of the way his gaze kept dropping to her mouth and jerking away again, as if he couldn't help himself. "The real reason," she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. "Tell me. The truth." "The truth is complicated." "Uncomplicate it." Another long pause. The kettle clicked off behind her, the water forgotten. "My father," Lucien said finally. "He's — the circumstances of his existence create certain... obligations. For me. Ones I cannot ignore, and cannot escape." His jaw tightened. "Ones that would put anyone close to me in considerable danger. The sort that doesn't care about innocence or choice." "Demon politics?" "Something like that." "And you didn't think I should have a say in whether that risk was worth taking?" "I thought I could spare you the burden of the choice." "That wasn't your right." "No." He met her eyes, and the raw honesty there made her breath catch. "It wasn't. I see that now. I saw it three weeks ago, when I realised I couldn't stay away any longer, and every day since has been an exercise in talking myself out of coming here." "So what changed?" "Nothing. Everything." He shook his head, a rueful smile twisting his lips. "I simply... missed you. Too much to pretend otherwise." Aurora's throat tightened. She wanted to stay angry, wanted to hold onto the righteous fury that had kept her going for six months of silence and unanswered messages. But looking at him now — the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped against his thigh in that nervous tell he probably didn't know he had — she felt the anger drain away, leaving only the hurt beneath. "You should have told me." "I should have done many things." "You're a bastard." "Frequently." "And you're impossible." "Also true." "And I spent half a year hating you while simultaneously hoping you'd walk through that door." The confession slipped out before she could stop it. Lucien's breath caught audibly. "I spent half a year hoping you wouldn't," he said quietly. "Because I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn't be able to leave. And staying is the most selfish thing I could possibly do." "And yet here you are." "Here I am." The rain had softened to a whisper against the windows. Ptolemy had curled up on a stack of ancient texts, apparently deciding the humans would work things out on their own. The curry smell had faded into the background, replaced by something warmer — something that felt dangerously close to hope. Aurora stepped back, creating distance, trying to think through the fog of months of waiting and wondering. Her fingers found the crescent scar on her wrist, traced it absently. "I need time," she said. "You don't get to walk back in and have everything be fine. That's not — I can't do that." "I know." "I'm still furious with you." "You should be." "And you're going to explain everything. All of it. No half-truths or convenient omissions." "All of it," he agreed. "I promise." "Starting now?" "Starting now." She studied his face, searching for the deception that experience told her had to be there. And found nothing but exhaustion and want and something that looked terrifyingly like hope. "Fine." She grabbed two mugs from the cluttered counter. "Sit down. You're making my kitchen look small." "Your kitchen is small." "Don't push your luck, Moreau." But when she turned back with the tea, she found him watching her with an expression that made her chest ache — the same one he'd worn the night before he disappeared, when he'd pressed his forehead to hers and said her name like a prayer. She wasn't ready to forgive him. Might never be ready. But she'd spent six months learning to live without this — without the heat of his attention, the way he listened like her words actually mattered, the strange comfort of his impossible presence. And if she was being honest with herself, she'd never stopped wanting it. The anger could wait. The explanations couldn't. She slid a mug across the counter toward him. "Start from the beginning."