Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0TY168YH8KHZKFJD9PJHF

Aurora frowned at the sharp knock on the door, glancing down at Ptolemy who had nestled into a sunbeam by the window, untouched by the commotion. Three sharp raps again. She rolled her eyes, weirdly reminded of knocks on courtroom doors from her law days—urgent, impatient, recklessly confident. No one ever knocked like that here in Eva’s flat. She crossed the room with slow steps, knuckles lifting the chain lock and swinging the door open. The face that greeted her was the last person she expected. Lucien. The faintest smirk curled on his lips, but it didn’t quite reach that splitting amber-black gaze. His tailored charcoal suit clung sharply to the frame of a man who rarely wasted time on trivial visits. “Rory.” His voice was silk wrapped around something darker. “Mind if I come in?” Something tightened inside her chest. She let her eyes drift over his figure, the cane resting against the doorframe with its ivory handle glinting like a ready weapon. “You knew where to find me.” The words fell blunt, none of the warmth circles around them used to hide the awkward ache that lingered. Lucien’s gaze flickered briefly to the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, barely visible beneath the sleeve pushed up, before he stepped past her, closing the door behind with a soft click. “I never forgot where.” His voice lowered, smooth but tense. “You always disappear before I can finish things.” Aurora didn’t move to close the door fully; the three deadbolts stayed out of sight behind the frame as she led the way into the flat. Ptolemy lifted his head, eyes blinking slowly, unimpressed. Somewhere in all this tension, the normalcy of a cat’s disregard made her breath hit a little easier. Lucien took the smallest pause by the cluttered kitchen counter, eyes skimming piles of scrolls and books. “Eva’s been keeping you busy.” “Same as ever.” Rory’s glance flicked to the window where London’s restless sky pressed grey, heavy with rain waiting to fall. “I’m not sure why you’re here, Lucien. Last time we talked, you left with a half-promise and a sharp goodbye.” A flicker of pain trembled through his features, then a shadow folded itself into anger. “You don’t make it easy to come back.” His fingers tightened around the handle of the cane as if drawing strength from the weight. Her hands curved into fists at her sides. “Maybe I didn’t want you coming back.” The words cracked out rougher than she planned. “You left. You walked away when things got messy.” He smiled, dangerously close to something cruel. “I didn’t walk. I was pushed. By you.” His amber eye caught the light, sharp as a blade. “You pushed me away.” “I pushed you because I was scared,” she snapped, stepping forward so the space between them shrank, thick with everything neither had said. “Scared you’d use me like all the others.” The scar on her wrist itched like it had a memory of hurt. “You were supposed to be different.” Lucien’s jaw clenched hard. “You don’t get to choose the damage people leave behind.” She inhaled sharply. “Neither do you.” The silence stretched until the distant sound of footsteps on the street below pierced through—the chaotic symphony of Brick Lane lunch hour. Ptolemy yawned and stretched, unbothered by the storm growing between them. “I’m not here to fight, Rory.” Lucien’s voice dipped, softer but no less intense. “I’m here because you called me last night. The text said urgent. You know I don’t ignore that.” She swallowed the lie trembling on her tongue, the words she hadn’t sent, but should have. “It wasn’t just a simple call,” she admitted with a reluctant nod. “Eva found something — something dangerous. I didn’t want to drag you into it.” He studied her with a careful patience that sliced through the anger. “You always dragged me in the moment I cared enough to stay close.” Her throat seized, but she pressed on. “I’m not that person anymore, Lucien. I don’t trust easily.” A wry chuckle escaped him, and he leaned against the counter, the ivory of the cane tapping softly on the tile. “Trust is a currency I’m willing to gamble with if the stakes are right. Are they?” His gaze pinned her. Rory forced her fingers to unclench and brushed a loose curl back behind her ear. “More than you can imagine. Eva—she’s chased down a lead on something tying to the realm of Avaros.” Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes sharpened immediately. “Demons and London’s back alleys again. You’re right to be wary.” “And you’re right to care if you ever did,” she shot back, bitter. “But unlike you, I have to survive every day pretending there’s no other world while living in the middle of it.” He stepped closer, voice dropping to a near whisper. “What does survival mean if it’s alone?” The air thickened, charged with the weight of that unspoken history—the nights spent tangled in shadows and whispered secrets, the fights that nearly broke them, the almost love that had crackled between two very different worlds. “I don’t want to be alone,” she admitted, voice trembling against the edge of fierce. “But trusting you again means risking everything. I still don’t know if I can.” Lucien’s smile was genuine now, slower, softer. “Then let’s take it slow. Starting with this.” He offered his hand, steady. “One step at a time.” She hesitated, the years of hurt and hesitation warring with the flicker of something she’d almost forgotten—hope. After a breath, her hand found his. Solid, warm. The first promise between them in a long time. “Alright, Lucien. We start with this.”