Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQZGHKMARAGT3M5CTKDFY4

The door swung open before Lucien could knock a second time. Rory stood there, her black hair damp from the rain, a dish towel slung over her shoulder. The scent of ginger and garlic clung to her clothes. "You." Her bright blue eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you doing here?" Lucien adjusted his grip on the ivory handle of his cane. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" "Friend?" She crossed her arms. "I don't recall us ever being friends." Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, wound between Rory's legs, tail flicking. She didn't look down. The deadbolts on the door behind her gleamed under the dim hallway light—three of them, all engaged. Lucien stepped forward, forcing her to retreat. The flat smelled of old paper and candle wax. Books teetered in stacks on every surface, some open, pages marked with sticky notes. A map of London's underground tunnels was pinned to the wall, red string connecting pushpins. "You're working with Eva again," he said. Not a question. Rory tossed the dish towel onto a chair. "That's none of your business." "It is when it involves things that go bump in the night." He tapped his cane against the floor. "You remember how that ended last time." Her fingers twitched at her sides. "I remember you walking away without a word." Silence stretched between them, thick as the dust motes swirling in the lamplight. Lucien exhaled through his nose. "I had my reasons." "Reasons you couldn't share? Not even a note?" She stepped closer, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her shampoo—something citrusy. "You just vanished. No explanation, no goodbye. Nothing." His jaw tightened. "Would you have listened if I'd tried to explain?" "I deserved the chance to decide that for myself." Ptolemy leapt onto the table, scattering a pile of scrolls. Rory didn't seem to notice. Her gaze remained locked on Lucien, unflinching. He set his cane against the wall and shrugged off his coat. "Fine. You want an explanation? Here it is. The last time we worked together, you nearly got yourself killed. Again. I wasn't about to stick around and watch it happen a third time." Her lips parted. "That's not—" "Fair? No, it wasn't. But neither is expecting me to stand by while you charge headfirst into danger like some kind of suicidal knight." He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, disrupting the careful styling. "I told you before, Rory. You don't get to play the hero. Not in this world." She scoffed. "And you do?" "I know my limits. You don't." Her hands clenched into fists. "You don't get to decide what I can and can't handle." "Someone has to." He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "Because you sure as hell won't." Rory didn't back down. Her chin lifted, defiance flashing in her eyes. "Get out." Lucien didn't move. "Not until you listen to me." "I don't have to listen to anything you say." "Then listen to this." His voice dropped, low and rough. "I'm here because Eva called me. Said you were digging into something you shouldn't. Something that's going to get you killed if you're not careful." Rory's breath hitched. "Eva had no right—" "She's worried about you. We both are." "We?" Her voice cracked. "There is no *we*, Lucien. There hasn't been for a long time." The words hung between them, sharp as broken glass. Lucien's chest tightened. He reached for her, his fingers brushing the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. She flinched but didn't pull away. "You're wrong," he said quietly. "There's always been a *we*. Even when you didn't want there to be." Rory's breath came faster. Her eyes searched his face, lingering on the heterochromatic gaze that marked him as something other. "Why now? After all this time, why show up now?" "Because I'm an idiot." His thumb traced the edge of her scar. "And because I couldn't stay away any longer." She swallowed hard. "This changes nothing." "Everything," he corrected. "It changes everything." The air between them crackled, charged with something neither of them dared to name. Lucien's hand slid up her arm, his fingers curling around the back of her neck. Her skin was warm, her pulse fluttering beneath his touch. Rory didn't move. Didn't breathe. "This is a mistake." "Probably." His voice was rough. "But I'm done pretending I don't want it." Her lips parted, but before she could speak, Lucien closed the distance between them. The kiss was rough, desperate, a collision of months of frustration and longing. Rory stiffened for a heartbeat before melting into him, her hands fisting in the lapels of his suit. The taste of her was familiar—mint and something sweet, like honey. Lucien groaned against her mouth, his free hand sliding down to grip her hip, pulling her flush against him. She gasped, her fingers tightening in his jacket. Ptolemy yowled from the table, knocking over a stack of books. The crash shattered the moment. Rory jerked back, her chest heaving. Her lips were swollen, her eyes wide. Lucien didn't let go. "Tell me to stop." She hesitated. Then, quieter, "I should." "But you won't." Her gaze dropped to his mouth. "No. I won't." He kissed her again, slower this time, savoring the way she arched into him. Her hands slid up his chest, her fingers tangling in his hair. Lucien's cane clattered to the floor as he backed her against the wall, his body pressing hers into the peeling wallpaper. Rory broke the kiss with a gasp. "We can't—" "We can." His lips trailed down her jaw, her throat. "And we will." Her fingers dug into his shoulders. "This doesn't fix anything." "Maybe not." His teeth grazed her collarbone. "But it's a start." She exhaled shakily, her head falling back against the wall. "Damn you, Lucien." He smirked against her skin. "You already have."