Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSYZ32071BVEM96Q08Z1S84

The door swung open before the first knock had fully faded, the hinges groaning like an old man’s breath. Aurora Carter froze mid-step, her fingers tightening around the worn leather of her messenger bag. The air in the hallway shifted, thick with the scent of bergamot and something darker—something that made her pulse jump even after all these years. Lucien Moreau stood there, his tailored charcoal suit stretching over broad shoulders, the platinum blond hair slicked back in that familiar way that made her throat tighten. One hand rested on the ivory-handled cane, the other lifted in a half-salute, half-question. His amber eye caught the dim light from the streetlamp, the black one watching her like it remembered every secret she’d ever kept. "You’re not supposed to be here," she said, voice steadier than she felt. A faint smirk curled his lips. "I’m never supposed to be anywhere, Rory. But here I am." His cane tapped once against the floorboards, a sharp *click* that echoed in the quiet. "Eva’s not home. Thought I’d take the opportunity." Aurora’s jaw clenched. "She’s not expecting you." "She knows I’m here." His gaze flicked past her, to the flat’s single window, where a single light glowed yellow behind the curtains. "She always does." The words hung between them, heavy with meaning neither wanted to name. She stepped back, letting him enter, but only because she knew better than to argue with a man who could make doors open with a word and promises unravel with a touch. The flat smelled of spiced tea and old paper—Eva’s domain, cluttered with books and half-finished research. Ptolemy, the tabby, materialised from under a stack of scrolls, tail lashing, before curling into a tight ball at her feet. Lucien didn’t move from the doorway. "You look well." Aurora exhaled through her nose, rubbing the back of her neck. "So do you." A pause. The kind that stretched longer than it should have. Then, because she couldn’t stand it: "You’re bleeding." His hand—smooth, unmarked—pressed against his ribs where the sleeve of his jacket had rucked up. A thin line of red seeped through the fabric. "A scratch. Nothing a little demon blood won’t fix." She rolled her eyes, but her fingers twitched toward her bag. "You’re lucky it’s not worse." "Is that a threat or an offer?" She opened her mouth, then closed it. The air between them crackled, charged with something neither of them dared name. The last time they’d been this close, she’d run. The last time he’d let her. Lucien stepped forward, the cane thudding against the floor. "You’ve been avoiding me." "Not avoiding," she corrected, though her voice lacked conviction. "Just… busy." He tilted his head, studying her. "Delivering takeout for a Chinese restaurant isn’t exactly a life-or-death mission." Aurora bristled. "It pays the rent." "And keeps you alive." His gaze dropped to her wrist, where the scar from childhood—small, crescent-shaped—peaked from beneath her sleeve. He remembered. Of course he did. "You still wear that thing like a badge." She yanked her arm back, but not before he saw. "It’s not a badge." "It’s a reminder." His voice dropped, rough with something she couldn’t name. "Of what you’ve survived." She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she didn’t need reminders, that she’d moved on. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she turned toward the kitchen, where the kettle hummed on the stove. "Tea?" Lucien didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, deliberate. "Only if you’re not trying to poison me." Aurora paused mid-reach for the mugs. "I’d never—" "Wouldn’t you?" His smile was slow, dangerous. "You’ve got a reputation for doing exactly what you’re not supposed to." She turned, hands clenched around the mugs. "And you’ve got a reputation for being a liar." "True." He followed her into the kitchen, the cane tapping against the tiles. "But I’m not lying now. I need your help." Aurora froze. The kettle’s whistle filled the silence. "What kind of help?" His gaze locked onto hers. "The kind that involves you and me, working together." She set the mugs down too hard. "That’s not happening." "Why not?" He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faintest flicker of gold in his black eye. "We’ve always worked well together." Aurora’s breath hitched. She remembered. The nights they’d spent in back alleys, him teaching her how to pick locks, how to disappear. The way his hands had felt against hers when he’d shown her how to fight. The way he’d kissed her once, right after, like he couldn’t help himself. She swallowed. "Things change." "Not always." His voice dropped, rough. "Some things stay the same." Aurora’s fingers trembled around the mug handle. She wanted to tell him to leave. Wanted to scream at him for showing up like this, for making her remember. But the kettle boiled, steam curling into the air between them, and the scent of Earl Grey filled the room. She turned away. "Fine. But I’m not doing this for you." "Then do it for yourself." Aurora didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The kettle’s whistle was the only sound in the room, loud and insistent, as she poured the water and let the silence stretch between them. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, sharp and urgent. The kind of sound that made her think of running. But she wasn’t running anymore. Lucien watched her, his gaze never leaving her face. "You’re still here." Aurora didn’t look at him. "I’m always here." A beat. Then, from the doorway, the faintest sound—a *thud*, like something heavy had been dropped. Ptolemy’s tail lashed against the floorboards, his green eyes fixed on them both. Lucien exhaled, slow and deliberate. "Eva’s home." Aurora didn’t turn. "Good." The door creaked open behind them. Eva’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and amused. "Took you long enough." Aurora didn’t move. Didn’t look. But she knew, without turning, that Lucien was already stepping back, the cane tapping against the floor as he retreated into the hallway. Eva’s laughter followed him out, bright and unguarded. "You’re still an idiot, you know that?" Aurora waited until the door had closed behind him before she finally turned. The mug of tea sat untouched on the counter, steam curling into the air. She picked it up. Sipped. The kettle’s whistle faded into the background. Somewhere, a car horn blared. The city hummed around them, indifferent. Aurora set the mug down. "I need to know what he wants." Eva leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "You always did have a soft spot for trouble." Aurora didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The kettle’s whistle was the only sound in the room, loud and insistent, as she reached for her bag.