Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ9J56DBKRMR46H6AAHQM7

The front door of Eva’s flat groaned under the weight of the knocker, its brass edge catching the dim glow of the streetlamps. Aurora Carter didn’t even glance up from her laptop—she was too busy swiping through a delivery app, her fingers hovering over the screen. The knock came again, sharper this time, and she finally sat back, her shoulders tense. “You’re late,” she muttered, voice dry. The door swung open before she could answer. Lucien Moreau stood there, his tailored suit still crisp despite the dampness clinging to his hair, his cane resting against the doorframe like a weapon. His amber eye locked onto hers, and for a heartbeat, the air between them crackled. “You didn’t have to come,” Aurora said, crossing her arms. “No,” Lucien agreed, stepping inside. “But I did.” The flat smelled of old paper and something faintly sweet—curry, maybe. Aurora didn’t move. The scar on her wrist, a thin crescent from a childhood accident, pulsed faintly under her skin. “You shouldn’t have come,” she repeated, voice too quiet. Lucien didn’t flinch. “I know.” The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in silence. Aurora exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the edge of her desk. Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor as he moved toward the kitchen, where a pot of tea steamed on the stove. “You’re drinking tea,” she observed. “You’re not,” he shot back, pouring two cups. “But I’m not leaving until you’re done.” Aurora didn’t argue. She took the cup, the warmth seeping into her hands. The scent of bergamot filled the air, sharp and bitter. “Why now?” she asked. Lucien didn’t answer right away. He sat across from her, his leg brushing hers under the table. Aurora’s breath hitched. She’d seen him like this before—close, too close, the way his fingers traced the cane’s hilt when he was nervous. “Because you were gone for too long,” he said finally. “And I couldn’t stand it.” Aurora’s jaw clenched. “You didn’t have to fix everything.” “No,” Lucien agreed. “But I had to fix *you*.” The words hung between them, heavy and wrong. Aurora’s fingers curled around her cup, the porcelain cool against her palm. Lucien leaned forward, his voice low. “You left me,” he said. “And I couldn’t let that happen again.” Aurora’s throat tightened. She’d thought about him in the dark, in the silence of her flat, her scar aching like it always did when she remembered Evan’s hands on her. She wanted to tell him it didn’t matter. But the words stuck in her throat. Lucien’s cane tapped against the table again, sharp and impatient. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.” Aurora’s breath came faster. She wanted to deny it, to say she was fine, but the truth was there in the way his fingers twitched, the way his eyes darkened when he spoke of the past. “You’re not,” she said softly. Lucien’s gaze snapped to hers, his amber eye burning. “I’m not?” Aurora swallowed. “You’re not the same person who walked out on me.” Lucien exhaled, long and slow. “No. But I’m not the one who let you walk away.” The kitchen light flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. Aurora’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, her mind racing. Lucien reached across the table, his hand brushing hers. “You’re scared,” he said. Aurora didn’t deny it. She was always scared. Of what came next, of what she’d left behind, of the way her life had unraveled when she’d left London. Lucien’s thumb brushed her wrist, the scar there, old and familiar. Aurora’s breath hitched. “You should go,” she whispered. Lucien’s fingers tightened. “No.” The flat was too small, too close, the air thick with unspoken words. Aurora’s pulse pounded in her ears. Lucien’s voice was rough when he spoke. “You left me with nothing,” he said. “And I’m not letting you do that again.” Aurora’s eyes burned. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But the door was locked, the flat was small, and Lucien was standing there, his cane tapping against the floor, his fingers brushing hers. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said. Lucien’s voice dropped, dangerous. “I know what I want.” Aurora’s breath came in shallow gasps. The scar on her wrist burned, sharp and bright. Lucien’s thumb traced the edge of it, slow and deliberate. “You’re not the same person who walked out on me,” he murmured. Aurora’s hands shook. She wanted to pull away. She wanted to scream. But the words stuck in her throat, heavy and wrong. Lucien’s fingers tightened. “No,” he said. “You’re not.” The flat was too small, too close. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of what came next. Aurora’s pulse pounded in her ears. Lucien’s voice was rough when he spoke. “You left me with nothing,” he said. “And I’m not letting you do that again.” Aurora’s eyes burned. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But the door was locked, the flat was small, and Lucien was standing there, his cane tapping against the floor, his fingers brushing hers. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said. Lucien’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “I know what I want.” Aurora’s breath came in shallow gasps. The scar on her wrist burned, sharp and bright. Lucien’s thumb traced the edge of it, slow and deliberate. “You’re not the same person who walked out on me,” he said. Aurora’s hands trembled. She wanted to pull away. She wanted to scream. But the words stuck in her throat, heavy and wrong. Lucien’s fingers tightened around her wrist. The flat was too small. The air was too thick. The weight of what came next pressed down on her, heavy and unyielding. Aurora’s eyes closed. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But the door was locked, the flat was small, and Lucien was standing there, his cane tapping against the floor, his fingers brushing hers. “You’re not the same person who walked out on me,” he said. Aurora’s breath came in ragged gasps. The scar on her wrist burned, bright and sharp. Lucien’s thumb traced the edge of it, slow and deliberate. “You left me with nothing,” he said. Aurora’s fingers dug into the edge of her desk. The flat was too small. The air was too thick. The weight of what came next pressed down on her, heavy and unrelenting. Lucien’s voice was rough, his breath hot against her ear. “And I’m not letting you do that again.” Aurora’s pulse roared in her ears. The scar on her wrist pulsed, sharp and bright. Lucien’s fingers tightened, his thumb brushing the edge of it, slow and deliberate. “You’re not the same person who walked out on me,” he said. Aurora’s breath came in shallow, trembling gasps. The door clicked open behind her. The flat was too small. The air was too thick. The weight of what came next pressed down on her, heavy and crushing. Lucien’s voice was a whisper, his breath hot against her neck. “And I’m not letting you do that again.” Aurora’s fingers clawed at the edge of her desk. The scar on her wrist burned, bright and searing. Lucien’s thumb traced the edge of it, slow and sure. “You left me with nothing,” he said. Aurora’s vision blurred. The flat was too small. The air was too thick. The weight of what was coming pressed down on her, relentless and final. Lucien’s fingers tightened. The door slammed shut behind her. Aurora’s breath came in ragged, broken gasps. The scar on her wrist burned like fire. Lucien’s thumb traced the edge of it, slow and deliberate. “You’re not the same person who walked out on me,” he said. Aurora’s knees hit the floor. The flat was too small. The air was too thick. The weight of what was coming pressed down on her, crushing and final. Lucien’s voice was a whisper, his breath hot against her skin. “And I’m not letting you do that again.” Aurora’s vision swam. The scar on her wrist pulsed, bright and searing. Lucien’s thumb brushed the edge of it, slow and sure. “You left me with nothing,” he said. Aurora’s fingers dug into the floor. The flat was too small. The air was too thick. The weight of what was coming pressed down on her, final and unyielding. Lucien’s voice was a growl. “And I’m not letting you walk away again.”