Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT071NKCCRH68TP3KMFV51G

The smell of simmering spices drifted through the narrow stairwell as Aurora hesitated outside Eva's flat. Her heart quickened as she reached for the door, a mixture of dread and anticipation pressing against her ribs like a vise. She hadn't stepped foot in this place for over a year, and the memories clung to her as stubbornly as shadows in the cramped hall. Her knuckles hovered above the wood, the brass plate gleaming dully in the dim light. Three deadbolts—Eva’s meticulous paranoia—clicked open, each metallic thunk a reminder of how secrets locked behind doors tend to fester. She hesitated a moment longer before pushing the door open. "Eva?" Her voice wavered slightly as it echoed against the paper-strewn surfaces inside. The familiar mess seemed untouched, a chaotic catalog of knowledge and distraction. Her foot had barely crossed the threshold when a blur of brown and black fur dashed out, weaving through her legs with impatient grace. "Ptolemy," she muttered, nudging the tabby aside with the tip of her boot. She closed the door behind her, its reassuring heft another layer against the whirlwind outside. But the quietude shattered at the sight meeting her eyes, jarring the very air she breathed. "Lucien." His name escaped her lips, more recognition than greeting, complicity woven with longing and bitterness unresolved. Lucien Moreau, leaning against the cluttered desk, aura of nonchalance perfected over lifetimes. He watched her with those mismatched eyes, one amber like a harvest moon, the other dark as midnight secrets. His tailored suit fit the room as incongruously as elegance in squalor. The cane, his signature accessory, lay casually across his lap, one tapered finger idly tracing its ivory handle. "Bien sûr," he drawled, the shadow of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. "Of all the flats in London, you choose this one." Aurora's pulse thumped in her throat. "I could say the same. Didn't expect to find you lounging here, Luc." She set her bag on the floor with a soft thud, refusing to blink away the reality of him, raw and visceral after so long. "A mutual friend needed a hand." He stood, a fluid motion, and took a step closer, eyes never leaving hers. "Eva is... temporarily indisposed. Research trip, or so she claims." Eva. That woman always had a finger in every plot. Aurora's brow furrowed with genuine irritation now. "Of course, she'd leave you in charge. I should have known." Lucien chuckled softly, the sound like velvet over rust. "Not in charge, merely... keeping the cat company. Though, Ptolemy might question the latter." She couldn't deny the magnetism pulling her toward him, a force stronger than reluctance, more insistent than doubt. The energy between them wound tighter, a string vibrating with tension just the side of snapping. "You're irritated," he noted, watching the emotions flicker across her face, reading her in ways that had once left her breathless and exposed. "I'm surprised," she countered, folding her arms across her chest. "Last time I saw you, we—" "Parted ways." He cut in smoothly, though his tone lost its easy humour. A faint crease appeared at his brow, a curiosity thwarted. "It was inevitable," he murmured, yet the subtle shift in his eyes spoke of an unfinished conversation, retelling their shared story in undertones. "Inevitable?" Aurora pushed the word back at him like a challenge, biting and on the offensive. Lucien tilted his head, a cascade of blond catching the light filtering through smudged windowpanes. "Yes, Rory. You chose a different path, and I—" "Wasn't part of it?" She interjected, frustration simmering beneath her cool exterior. Her voice softened, almost against her will. "Or chose not to be?" The silence crouched between them, heavy yet poised on the edge of something transformative, a stone's throw from vulnerably raw confessions. "I made a mistake," Lucien admitted finally. A rare honesty wrapped in velvet resolve. "And I regret what I didn't say." She swallowed, her fingers absently tracing the crescent scar on her wrist. Turning her gaze away, she sought refuge amidst the familiarity of books stacked like old loyalties. "Why now, Lucien?" "In this life," he murmured, "we're always running out of time." His words hung suspended, and she found herself coaxed forward by something elemental and unyielding. She stepped toward him, closing the gap inch by deliberate inch. "Time," Aurora echoed, a word weighted with years. "It was never really ours, was it?" "Borrowed at best," Lucien replied, shadowed eyes locked on hers as though they might somehow bend time to their will. She breathed deeply, drawing courage from every corner of herself. "Then what do we do with the time that's left? Count what waits in the quiet?" "Or," he offered, voice low, "begin again." The resonance of his suggestion settled around her like warm silk, undefined, promising. The room—their microcosm—stilled, suspended. This was the place of decisions, where past and present converged, spoke in the language of second chances. Just inches between them now, Rory stood undeterred, the air turning breathless, saturated by the gravity of untamed promises. "What you said earlier," she began, her voice unwavering, "about regrets. There's more, isn't there?" A shadow of himself flitted across his face, brief and telling. Lucien took a steadying breath. "Yes," he admitted, a quiet sincerity bore into her soul. "So say it. You owe me that." He hesitated, dark gaze shifting, caught between the residue of old habits and the risk of exposure. "I should have stayed," he confessed, a roughness clinging to every syllable. "When it mattered most, I should have stayed." She looked at him, an abyss of emotion stretching beyond what words could capture. A single tear slipped unnoticed, marking her face; and though her heart ached with the immense weight of things loved and lost, it beat steadily—a reliable soldier. "Do you know what I want, Lucien?" she asked, her voice quietly defiant, the precarious equilibrium between what they were and what they might become, trembling and alive. "What do you want, Rory?" Her eyes met his, unyielding, a dawn unraveling midnight. "To start anew. With you." The moment lingered, dense and fragile, before unfolding softly between them—a new beginning, whispered into existence.