Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ6Y7PN4AAK1ANSAVS7JFS

The front door of Eva’s flat groaned under the weight of the deadbolt, the old hinges protesting like a tired old dog. Aurora Carter stepped inside, her boots crunching on the cracked linoleum, the scent of damp brick lane and old paper thick in the air. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the room exhaled. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, hissed from the shelf where he’d been napping, tail flicking like a metronome set to a slow, restless beat. He didn’t rise. Didn’t even look. Aurora exhaled, rubbing her wrist where the scar from her childhood accident still stung—just a little. She hadn’t thought about it in years, but now, standing here, the weight of it pressed against her ribs like an old debt. A voice, smooth and low, cut through the quiet. *"You shouldn’t have come."* Aurora turned. The door had opened before she could react, and there he stood—Lucien Moreau, his cane resting against the wall, his suit immaculate despite the way the streetlight slanted across his face. His amber and black eyes locked onto hers, and for a second, the world narrowed to that single gaze, the kind that could either burn or warm. *"I didn’t have a choice,"* she said, voice rougher than she intended. She stepped forward, fingers brushing the scarred skin of her wrist. *"You showed up at my flat. Again."* Lucien’s lips quirked, just a little. *"I didn’t mean to scare you."* *"You did."* She crossed her arms, the scar’s memory sharp beneath her fingers. *"You always do."* The air between them thickened, charged like the moment before a storm. Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the sound deliberate. *"You’re still here."* Aurora glanced around the flat—bookshelves sagging under the weight of scrolls, the scent of old parchment and something else, something sharper, like the edge of a blade. *"I’m not running."* Lucien exhaled, slow and measured. *"Good."* A beat. The kind of silence that hung between them like a half-remembered song. Then, from the other side of the room, a voice—Eva’s, sharp and amused. *"Oh, for heaven’s sake, if you two are going to stand there like a couple of teenagers, I’ll just—"* Aurora didn’t wait to hear what Eva said. She moved before Lucien could stop her, her fingers brushing the scar again, the memory of the accident sharp as a knife. *"You know what they say about ghosts,"* she murmured, *"they don’t go away."* Lucien’s gaze flicked to her wrist, then back to her face. *"No, they don’t."* The door behind them clicked shut. Eva’s voice faded, distant. The flat felt smaller now, the space between them tighter. Aurora didn’t look away. Lucien’s cane lifted, the blade hidden beneath the ivory handle glinting in the dim light. *"You’re not a ghost."* *"No."* She met his gaze, the weight of it pressing down. *"But you are."* The air between them crackled. Lucien’s fingers twitched toward his cane. *"You’re not afraid of me."* *"I’m afraid of what I see."* The words slipped out before she could stop them. Before she could think. Before she could lie. Lucien’s expression darkened. *"Then you’re not the same person who left."* Aurora swallowed, her throat tight. *"I’m not."* The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things. Then, from the other room, Eva’s voice cut through again, lighter this time. *"Well, I’m starving. You two look like you could use a bite to eat."* Lucien’s gaze snapped to the door. *"I’ll get it."* Aurora didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The weight of his stare, the unspoken tension, the way his fingers flexed near the cane—it all settled over her like a shroud. *"You’re not leaving,"* she said. Lucien’s jaw tightened. *"I’m not."* The door swung open again. Eva’s voice was bright, but her eyes were sharp. *"Well, if you’re not going, I am. I’ve got a date with a very particular kind of curry."* Aurora watched as Eva stepped out, the door clicking shut behind her. The flat fell silent again. Lucien exhaled, slow and steady. *"You’re staying."* Aurora didn’t answer. She just watched him, the way his suit clung to his frame, the way his eyes burned with something she couldn’t name. The scar on her wrist pulsed, sharp and alive. *"You’re not running,"* he said again. *"No."* She met his gaze. *"I’m not."* The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him move. The cane lifted, the blade glinting in the dim light. *"You’re not a ghost."* Aurora didn’t flinch. *"No."* The air between them crackled, charged with something electric. Lucien’s fingers tightened around the cane. *"You’re not afraid."* *"I’m afraid of what I see."* Her voice was low, rough. *"Of what I’m becoming."* Lucien’s gaze darkened. *"Then you’re not the same person who left."* Aurora swallowed, her throat tight. *"I’m not."* The flat felt smaller now, the space between them tighter. The weight of his stare, the unspoken tension, the way his fingers flexed near the cane—it all settled over her like a shroud. Lucien’s voice was a whisper. *"You’re not a ghost."* Aurora didn’t look away. *"I’m not."* The door behind them clicked shut. Eva’s voice faded, distant. The flat fell silent. Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor, the sound deliberate. *"You’re staying."* Aurora exhaled, her fingers still brushing the scar on her wrist. *"I am."*