Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQQSNYV88H0R031KFXV0VR

Aurora stood in her kitchen, rinsing out a coffee mug, when she heard the knock on the door. She froze, soap suds clinging to her fingers, and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a bit late for visitors. Ptolemy, lounging on the window sill, perked his ears up at the sound. The cat's curiosity mirrored hers. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she moved towards the front door, absently patting the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. Another knock, three sharp raps. Her heartbeat quickened. Maybe it was Silas, needing to borrow something again. But a whisper of intuition told her otherwise. She activated each of the three deadbolts with deliberate care, swung the door open, and there he stood. Lucien Moreau filled the doorway, his imposing figure framed by the dim light from the hallway. His presence exuded the same intense, magnetic energy it always had. He looked at her with those heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—like twin embers burning with old secrets and a world-weary wisdom. His tailored charcoal suit was immaculate, naturally, and the ivory handle of his cane gleamed. "Bonsoir, Rory," he greeted, his voice smooth, cultured, with just a trace of fatigue. "Lucien," she replied, struggling to keep her composure. It had been six months since their last tense encounter at Silas' bar. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to steady her breathing. "What are you doing here?" Undeterred by her defensive posture, he gently shifted the cane in his hand and stepped inside, forcing her back a step. "I need to discuss something with you. Something important." With a hesitant sigh, she closed the door behind him. "You always need something. Typical Lucien." He turned to face her, a faint smile on his lips. "Typical Rory, always a sharp tongue." She moved to the tiny living room, feeling his gaze linger on the overloaded bookshelves. "So, what is it this time? Demons in the Underground? Fallen angels in Piccadilly?" His laughter echoed in the small space, rich and unguarded. "Actually, it's a bit more personal than that." "Personal, huh?" She raised an eyebrow, feeling the old hurt simmer beneath her cool exterior. "You sure you want to tread that ground?" Lucien walked over, the subtle tap of his cane on the floorboards a rhythm that had once been comforting. "Do I have much of a choice?" "I guess not," she said, resigning herself to the inevitable. She sank into the worn armchair, motioning for him to take a seat opposite her. "Start talking." He remained standing, a flicker of unease crossing his features. "It's about Evan." The name hit her like a physical blow, stirring up buried memories. "Evan?" Her voice tightened. "Why are you bringing him up?" "Because he's back in town." Lucien's gaze softened, and for a moment, she glimpsed the vulnerability he rarely showed. "And he's looking for you." Aurora felt the room close in around her. "Why would he do that? I'm done with him," she insisted, though her voice betrayed the fear lurking within. "I know you are," Lucien said, stepping closer. "But he has a stake in something I'm currently keeping from the wrong hands. I need your help to keep it that way." "Let me guess—this something is dangerous," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why involve me?" "Because no one else can do what you do," he replied, a hint of admiration in his tone. "You're smart, resourceful, and you know how Evan thinks." The backhanded compliment made her stomach churn. She looked up at him, searching for sincerity. "And what about us?" The question escaped her lips before she could stop it. Lucien's expression softened. "I thought about you every day, Rory. About what we could have been if things were different." "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Her voice cracked, the hurt resurfacing. "You walked away." "It wasn't that simple," he argued, his facade slipping just a touch. "Protecting you meant distancing myself." "I never wanted protection," she shot back, rising from her seat. "I wanted you. All of you." Their faces were inches apart now, the tension between them taut like a bowstring. "And you still do," he said quietly. "I don't know, Lucien," she admitted, the words heavy. "It's been so long." He reached out, let his fingers brush against her arm ever so lightly. "Let me prove it to you. Let me make up for everything." Ptolemy mewed from the window sill, an unexpected reminder of the normalcy she sought. Aurora sighed, looking away from Lucien's intense gaze. "Can you really protect me this time? Without leaving?" He stepped closer, closing the remaining gap between them. "Yes," he whispered fiercely. "Let me prove it to you." Placing a hand on his chest, she felt his heartbeat, strong and steady. "Alright." She looked up at him, unsure but willing to try. "We'll do this. Together." His smile was a mix of relief and something deeper. "Merci, Rory." "Don't thank me yet," she warned, but there was the smallest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "We have a lot to figure out." "But tonight," Lucien said, casting a glance around the cluttered flat, "tonight let's just have peace." Despite everything, she laughed. "In this place? You're dreaming, Frenchman." "Then let me dream," he replied, a rare, unguarded warmth in his eyes. They stood there in the dim light, the unspoken promise of old wounds beginning to heal filling the space between them. Both knowing it wouldn’t be easy, but maybe, just maybe, they could find their way back to each other.