Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ1ZVP4XCSJEF3G62JWN1W

The key turned in the deadbolt with a sharp click. Rory hesitated, her fingers still wrapped around the cold metal, before pushing the door open. The scent of cardamom and old paper hit her first, then the low hum of Eva’s record player spinning some jazz she didn’t recognize. Ptolemy uncurled from the armchair, stretched, and blinked at her with lazy green eyes. Then she saw him. Lucien stood by the window, one hand resting on the sill, the other tapping his cane against his thigh. The late afternoon light caught the sharp angles of his face, the platinum of his hair, the way his amber eye glinted like a coin in the sun. His suit was immaculate, as always—charcoal wool, tailored to perfection, the faintest sheen of rain still clinging to the shoulders. Rory’s breath stuck in her throat. “You’re not Eva,” she said. His mouth quirked. “Observant as ever.” “What are you doing here?” “Waiting for you.” He turned fully toward her, the black eye swallowing the light. “Eva let me in. Said you’d be back soon.” Rory stepped inside, shutting the door harder than she meant to. The locks slid home with three decisive thunks. “She didn’t mention it.” “She was in the middle of a ritual. Something about binding a spirit to a teacup.” He shrugged. “I didn’t ask for details.” Rory tossed her keys onto the cluttered side table. They skidded across a stack of books, sending a few sliding to the floor. “You could’ve called.” “I did. Three times.” She pulled her phone from her pocket. Sure enough, three missed calls from a number she’d deleted months ago. “I’ve been working.” “Delivering dumplings?” “Someone’s got to pay the rent.” Lucien’s gaze flicked to her wrist, where the crescent scar peeked out from under her sleeve. She tugged it down, but not fast enough. His jaw tightened. “You look tired.” “And you look like you walked out of a magazine.” She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Lucien?” He exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. “Straight to the point. I forgot how much I missed that.” “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Don’t act like we’re old friends catching up.” His fingers tightened around the cane. “We were never just friends, Rory.” The words hung between them, heavy as the London damp. She could still feel the ghost of his mouth on hers, the way his hands had gripped her hips like he was afraid she’d disappear. Then the way he’d walked away without looking back. She turned toward the kitchenette, putting the counter between them. “Eva’s got tea somewhere. Or whiskey. You can have whichever you want, then you can leave.” “Whiskey, then.” She pulled a bottle from the cabinet, the glass cool against her palm. Two glasses. No ice. She poured, the liquid catching the light like amber fire. When she turned back, he was closer than she expected, close enough that she could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the one he’d gotten in Marseille years ago. He took the glass. Their fingers didn’t touch, but she felt the heat of him anyway. “You left,” she said. “I had to.” “Bullshit.” His mouth twisted. “You think I wanted to walk away from you?” “You did it pretty well.” “Because I had no choice.” He set the glass down without drinking. “You know what I am. What I’m capable of. I wasn’t going to drag you into that.” “You didn’t give me a say in it.” “Would you have stayed if I had?” She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. They both knew the truth. Lucien stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his pupils dilated when he looked at her. “I thought about you every damn day.” “Then why didn’t you come back sooner?” “Because I’m an idiot.” His hand lifted, hesitated, then cupped her cheek. His skin was warmer than she remembered, rougher. “Because I thought you were better off without me.” She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve told him to leave. But his thumb brushed over her bottom lip, and her breath hitched. “Rory,” he murmured. She grabbed his wrist, not to push him away, but to hold him there. “If you walk out that door again, don’t bother coming back.” His other hand slid around her waist, pulling her against him. “I’m not going anywhere.” Then his mouth was on hers, and it wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, hungry, like he was trying to make up for every second they’d lost. She kissed him back just as hard, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The cane clattered to the floor, forgotten. Ptolemy yowled from the armchair. Lucien broke the kiss with a rough laugh, resting his forehead against hers. “Your cat’s judging me.” “He’s got good taste.” She pressed her lips to his jaw, then his throat, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his skin. “You’re still an idiot.” “Yeah.” His hands slid under her shirt, tracing the curve of her spine. “But I’m your idiot.” She bit his earlobe, just hard enough to make him groan. “Prove it.”