Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQZAKJR20VNZM980R33FHM

The deadbolt scraped back with a sound like a blade being drawn. Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door, her knuckles whitening. The hallway light carved sharp angles across the man standing there—tailored charcoal suit, platinum hair slicked back, one amber eye glinting like a coin in the dark. Lucien Moreau. Three months since she’d last seen him. Three months since she’d walked out of that jazz club in Soho, his voice still ringing in her ears: *"You don’t get to decide what’s best for me."* Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, wound between her ankles, purring like a motor. The cat always did have terrible taste in men. "Rory." His voice was smooth, the kind of smooth that came from practice, from knowing exactly how to make a name sound like an invitation. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed as he shifted his weight. She didn’t step aside. "What are you doing here?" A flicker of something—amusement? irritation?—crossed his face. "Straight to the point. I forgot how much I missed that." He tilted his head, the amber eye catching the light. "May I come in?" "No." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I didn’t think you’d make this easy." "I’m not making it anything. You’re the one who showed up unannounced at my friend’s flat at—" she glanced at the clock on the wall, "—eleven-thirty at night." "Your friend’s flat," he repeated, slow, like he was tasting the words. "Not yours." Rory exhaled through her nose. "You know what I mean." "Do I?" He leaned against the doorframe, close enough that she caught the scent of bergamot and something darker, something that always clung to him—smoke and old books. "Because last I checked, you didn’t have a flat. You had a room above a bar. And a job delivering dumplings." Her jaw set. "I have a name for that job, actually. It’s called *employment*." Lucien’s gaze dropped to her wrist, to the crescent-shaped scar peeking out from under her sleeve. His expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened around the cane. "I didn’t come here to fight." "Then why *did* you come here?" Silence. The kind that stretched too long, the kind that had always filled the spaces between them, heavy with things neither of them would say. Ptolemy, traitor that he was, chose that moment to rub against Lucien’s leg, leaving a trail of orange fur on his trousers. Lucien crouched, running a hand over the cat’s back. "Still taking in strays, I see." Rory crossed her arms. "He’s not a stray. He’s Eva’s." "Mmm." He straightened, brushing fur from his sleeve. "Eva’s not here, is she?" Rory’s stomach twisted. Of course he knew that. Lucien Moreau didn’t show up anywhere without knowing exactly who was home and who wasn’t. "She’s at work." "Convenient." Her fingers curled into fists. "If you’re implying—" "I’m not implying anything." He held up a hand, palm out. "I’m stating facts. You’re alone. I’m here. And we have things to discuss." "We don’t." "Rory." The way he said her name—like it was a secret, like it was something precious—made her chest ache. She stepped back, finally, because if she didn’t, she was going to do something stupid. Like slam the door in his face. Or worse, let him in. The flat smelled of old paper and curry from the restaurant downstairs. Lucien took it in with a single sweep of his gaze—the stacks of books teetering on the coffee table, the half-empty mug of tea gone cold, the way the lamplight pooled in the corners like spilled ink. He moved further inside, his cane tapping against the floorboards, and Rory shut the door harder than she meant to. The lock clicked into place. Lucien turned, his heterochromatic eyes unreadable. "You’re still angry." She barked out a laugh. "No. Why would I be angry?" He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he set his cane against the wall and shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the back of the armchair. The movement was deliberate, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world. Rory’s pulse jumped. "What are you doing?" "Making myself comfortable." He rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with old scars, the kind that came from more than just accidents. "You’re not going to offer me a drink?" "I’m not playing host." "Then I’ll help myself." He moved toward the kitchenette, opening cabinets with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Which, she realized with a jolt, he probably had. Rory followed, her boots thudding against the floor. "You don’t get to just—" "Whiskey?" He held up a bottle of something dark and expensive, the label half-peeled. "Or are you still a gin girl?" She swallowed. "I don’t drink with people who show up uninvited." Lucien poured two fingers into a glass anyway. "Liar." He took a sip, his throat working, before setting the glass down in front of her. "You drink when you’re nervous. When you’re angry. When you’re trying not to say something you’ll regret." Rory’s fingers twitched toward the glass. She curled them into her palm instead. "I don’t regret anything." "Don’t you?" He leaned against the counter, close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his black eye seemed to drink in the light. "Because I do." The words hung between them, heavy and impossible to ignore. Rory’s breath hitched. "You—" "I regret letting you walk away." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "I regret not telling you to stay." Her chest tightened. "You didn’t *let* me do anything. I made my own choice." "And I respected it." He reached out, his fingers brushing the scar on her wrist. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. "But respect doesn’t mean I have to like it." Rory’s throat went dry. "Lucien." He stepped closer, his hand sliding up her arm, over her shoulder, until his fingers tangled in the ends of her hair. "You cut it." She hadn’t even realized she’d reached for the scissors that day, three weeks after she’d left him. Just that one morning, she’d woken up and the weight of it had been too much. "It was in the way." His thumb traced the line of her jaw. "I liked it long." "I don’t care what you like." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Yes, you do." She should have pushed him away. Should have told him to leave. But his touch was familiar in a way that made her bones ache, and when he dipped his head, when his mouth brushed against hers, it wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. Hungry. Rory kissed him back. Three months of silence, of pretending she didn’t miss the way he tasted, the way his hands felt on her skin—it all unraveled in an instant. Lucien made a sound low in his throat, his fingers tightening in her hair, and then he was walking her backward, until her spine hit the wall. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but she didn’t care. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and his mouth slanted over hers, hot and demanding. When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged. "Tell me to stop." Rory’s lips were swollen, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. She should have said it. Should have told him this was a mistake. But the words died in her throat. Lucien’s forehead rested against hers. "That’s what I thought." His hand slid down her side, his thumb hooking into the waistband of her jeans. "Bedroom?" Rory’s laugh was breathless. "You’re assuming a lot." He grinned, sharp and wicked. "Am I wrong?" She didn’t answer. Instead, she took his hand and led him down the hall.