Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR297GKCWGB8TYQ9AK967V

Knuckles rapped against chipped white wood—a rhythm out of place with the steady hum of the curry house below. Aurora Carter watched the door as she padded through the cramped darkness of Eva’s flat, a book tucked under one arm. She exchanged a quick glance with Ptolemy, the cat curled methodically upon a pile of crumpled maps. The knock came again, insistent. She nudged a folio off the desk, snapped the last deadbolt, hesitated. Who in their right mind tried social calls at half eleven? She cracked the door a careful inch. The corridor glowed sickly yellow from a dying bulb, and in the centre of that flickering pool stood Lucien Moreau—still tall and elegant, the same as months ago. If ‘the Frenchman’ looked any different since the last time she’d seen him, it was only that his tailored charcoal suit looked even more at home on him than she remembered. His cane glimmered at his side, ivory handle catching the light. Heterochromatic eyes swept over her face—left bright, right impossibly black. “Evening, Aurora. Have I caught you before some scandalous rendezvous?” His mouth, always a dangerous line, twitched at the corners. She backed up, heartbeat rabbit-fast. “You have about four minutes before my neighbour rings the police.” He cocked his head, glancing down at Ptolemy, whose tail twitched. “Should I worry about the reception committee?” “Depends.” She shut the book with a snap and let the door swing a little wider. “You stalking me, or is this another one of your business calls?” He stepped in without permission, eyes cataloguing every inch: the stacks of books by the radiator, the cracked lamp with its paper shade. “I see Eva’s taste in interior design hasn’t improved. Still—at least you didn’t run this time.” The door clattered into place behind him, and she busied herself relocking the top bolt. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m considering the window.” He placed the cane against the wall—a soft clack on the warped floorboards. He had a knack for taking up space, standing at the edge of the cheap throw rug as if he owned the building. “Are you armed?” he asked, dry amusement in his tone. “I'd rather avoid another incident with the kitchen knives.” “Try me.” She tossed her keys into a bowl, watched his hands: ringless, still elegant, no tremble. He surveyed the small room, lingering on an ashtray filled with spent tea lights. “You look the same, Rory.” A breath. “Tired, still stubborn.” Despite herself, her jaw tightened at the old nickname. “What do you want, Lucien?” His gaze flicked over her—cool, naked calculation. Somehow, beneath it, she tasted the old heat. Cardigan slipping off one shoulder, she moved around him to retrieve another stack of notes—barrier and armour. He exhaled through his nose, voice softer now. “I needed to see you. Tonight.” “That so?” she asked, forcing breeziness. He broke their locked gaze to scan the room again, pausing on the crescent shadow of her childhood scar peeking from her sleeve. “You’re safe, yes? No trouble with Evan. I heard—” “You keep tabs on me, now?” She dropped the clippings on the table, unable to hold back sharpness. “You know I do.” His expression shifted: a flicker of regret, almost imperceptible. “You left in such haste.” A hollow scoff. “And you—what? Vanished after the warehouse job and expected me to chase after you?” He ran a thumb along his jaw, the line where stubble threatened to appear. “You misunderstand. I couldn’t stay. Not with them closing in.” Her mouth tightened. “There’s always someone closing in on you.” He shifted, the polished heel of his shoe grinding out ash on the floor. “You as well, if you remember. I warned you about London—” She cut in, shaking her head. “We’re not here to re-litigate last year.” The tabby leapt onto the table, pinning both their attentions. Aurora stroked Ptolemy’s back—her shield, her excuse to turn away from Lucien’s unreadable stare. He leaned his cane on the wall and unbuttoned his coat. Sharp consonants coloured his next words. “Aurora, they’re looking for you again.” She stiffened. “You could have written. Or rung. Or, I dunno—texted instead of bringing trouble to Eva’s doorstep.” His gaze lingered on her hands, noticing how her fingers shook only when she’d hoped he wouldn’t see. “I came to warn you myself. Because otherwise—” He trailed off, and she snorted, unable to help herself. “You don’t trust anybody.” His lips thinned to a mirthless smile. “A habit I learned quickly, thanks to our line of work.” Pause. Something hung in the dead air—something raw, itching. She met his gaze square on. “You said you’d help. Then you disappeared—without a word. You don’t get to show up and act as if we can just pick up again.” Lucien reached for a battered ring on her kitchen table—finger tracing the curve absently. “And you stopped answering every number that wasn’t Eva’s. You made it very clear.” She studied him now, measured. Outside, a night bus rumbled past. “Why tonight, Lucien?” He straightened. Shadows hugged the sharp planes of his face. “I didn’t like how we left things.” She snorted—a brittle sound escaping her throat. “You think I did?” He took a step closer. She matched, refusing to cede ground. “You don’t scare me,” she muttered. Her fingers sought the scar on her wrist, rubbing old memory. “I never aimed to.” His voice dropped, gravel-thick, that rare fracture in his composure peeking through. “But I can’t pretend I wouldn’t do it all over again, to get you clear of that mess.” “If you were so set, you could have damn well stayed. Or told me why you couldn’t. Instead, you hid.” A muscle in his jaw worked. “You weren’t the only one in danger.” “Always about you, isn’t it?” The accusation bit—the old wound, still open. He rubbed the heel of his palm over his mouth, searching for somewhere to rest his eyes that wasn’t her. “No, Aurora. If it were only me, I wouldn’t be here.” Her chest fluttered with a mixture she hated—anger, relief, something else old and bright. “You always turn up when I’m almost over you.” He barked a short laugh. “Almost?” She glared at him, felt her cheeks grow hot. “Go to hell.” “Probably will.” He grinned, that old wolfish curve. “Missed you, nevertheless.” She looked away, pretended to scan a row of yellowed paperbacks, but her voice tugged low. “You walked out.” He moved close enough that his breath pushed against her skin. “It nearly killed me,” voice rougher than she’d heard it—in English, but vulnerable in a way only French could make beautiful. Silence filled the small room like heavy wool. Ptolemy mewed, tail curling. She swallowed, refusing softness. “What’s your game this time?” His expression sobered. The black in his eye caught the low light, swallowing it. “No game. Just… unfinished things.” She let the moment stretch, left the unfinished end of his sentence twisting between them—dangerous, unsaid. At last, she released a breath. “You’ve got five minutes to explain who’s after me this time, and then you leave.” He nodded, hands dropping to his sides. Neither of them moved toward the kettle, or the door. Only the old ache of longing and resentment surviving the months apart, wrapping tightly around their words.