Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRC5SBXE75K17MB678DB6T

The knock came three times, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the quiet hum of Eva’s flat. Rory froze mid-sip of tea, her gaze flicking to the door. Ptolemy, curled on the armchair, lifted his head, ears twitching. “Expecting someone?” Eva asked, not looking up from the ancient tome spread across her lap. Rory set the mug down, steam curling lazily into the air. “No.” The knock came again, louder this time. Rory’s stomach twisted. She padded to the door, barefoot, and peered through the peephole. Her breath caught. Lucien Moreau stood on the other side, impeccably dressed as always in a charcoal suit, his platinum blond hair slicked back, the ivory-handled cane resting casually at his side. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—seemed to stare directly through the door, piercing her even though he couldn’t see her. Rory hesitated, her fingers brushing the deadbolt. “Who is it?” Eva called. Rory didn’t answer. She unlocked the door and opened it just enough to peer out. “What are you doing here?” Lucien’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “Hello to you too, Aurora.” “It’s Rory,” she corrected automatically, though her voice lacked its usual bite. “Apologies. May I come in?” She glanced over her shoulder. Eva was engrossed in her book, oblivious to the tension thickening the air. Rory stepped back, opening the door wider. Lucien stepped inside, his cane tapping softly against the wooden floor. He looked around, taking in the cluttered space with a faint air of amusement. “Charming,” he said. “What do you want, Luc?” He turned to her, his gaze lingering on her face. “I heard you were in London. Thought I’d pay a visit.” “You heard wrong.” “Clearly not.” His smile deepened. Rory crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You’ve seen me. Now you can leave.” “So hostile. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.” “Why would I be pleased?” Lucien tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.” “That’s one way to put it.” He sighed, leaning on his cane. “I’d hoped we could talk. Clear the air.” Rory’s jaw tightened. “There’s nothing to talk about.” “Isn’t there?” She looked away, her gaze landing on the small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. The memory flashed unbidden—Lucien’s hand reaching for hers, the warmth of his touch, the sharp sting of betrayal that followed. She pushed it aside, refocusing on his face. “What do you want, Luc? Really.” He hesitated, his mask of composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “I miss you.” The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Rory felt her chest tighten. She glanced back at Eva, who was still absorbed in her reading, oblivious to the tension crackling in the room. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly. “Probably not.” “Then why are you?” “I told you. I miss you.” Rory shook her head. “You don’t get to say that. Not after everything.” “I know I screwed up. I’m not here to make excuses. I just…” He ran a hand through his hair, a rare sign of vulnerability. “I need you to know that I regret it. All of it.” She studied his face, searching for sincerity. His eyes, always so guarded, were uncharacteristically open. “Why now?” she asked. “Because I realized I can’t keep running from this. From us.” “There is no us.” “Isn’t there?” She didn’t answer. Lucien took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I know I hurt you. And I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I’m here, Rory. I’m here because I can’t stand the thought of losing you. Not again.” Her breath caught, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to push him away, to tell him to leave and never come back. But the ache in his voice, the raw honesty in his eyes—it shattered her defenses. “Luc…” “Please,” he murmured. “Just… give me a chance. Let me prove I’m not the man I was.” She hesitated, torn between the pain of the past and the pull of something deeper. Something she’d tried to bury but never quite succeeded. “I don’t know,” she admitted. He reached for her hand, his touch gentle yet electric. “You don’t have to decide right now. Just… think about it.” She looked down at their joined hands, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers. Her pulse quickened, the familiar spark reigniting despite her best efforts to suppress it. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Of course not,” he agreed, though his eyes told a different story. She pulled her hand away, stepping back. “I need time.” He nodded, his expression softening. “Take all the time you need.” She glanced at Eva, who was still engrossed in her book. “You should go.” “Alright.” He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at her. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad I found you.” She didn’t respond, watching as he walked away, the sound of his cane fading into the distance. Ptolemy leapt from the armchair, padding over to rub against her legs. She crouched down, scratching behind his ears, her thoughts swirling. “Who was that?” Eva asked, finally looking up. Rory stood, brushing her hands on her jeans. “No one. Just… someone from my past.” Eva raised an eyebrow. “Judging by the look on your face, he’s more than just ‘no one.’” Rory sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It’s complicated.” “Isn’t it always?” She managed a small smile. “Yeah. Always.” Eva closed her book, setting it aside. “You know where to find me if you need to talk.” “Thanks.” Rory returned to her tea, now cold, and stared out the window. The streets of London bustled below, unaware of the storm brewing in her heart. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know if she could trust Lucien again. But one thing was certain—her life had just gotten a lot more complicated.