AI The insistent rapping at the door jolted Rory from her research. The late afternoon sun, thick with London smog, cast long shadows across the stacks of arcane texts that threatened to spill from Eva's overflowing shelves. Ptolemy, Eva’s orange tabby, twitched an ear from his perch on a precariously balanced pile of grimoires. Three deadbolts, each heavy and protesting, slid back with a groan that echoed in the cramped space above the curry house. Rory braced herself, assuming it was Eva back from the market, though she’d been gone for hours.
The door swung open, revealing not Eva, but Lucien Moreau . He leaned against the doorframe, his platinum hair slicked back, a stark contrast to the deepening twilight. His heterochromatic eyes, one the color of aged amber, the other a void of black, swept over her, taking in the ink smudges on her cheek and the worn t-shirt she wore. A Ghost of a smile played on his lips.
"Bonsoir, Aurora," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated somewhere deep in her chest. The silk of his charcoal suit seemed to absorb what little light there was. He straightened, pushing off the frame, and with a fluid motion, stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The deadbolts, engaged with a decisive click, sealed them in the dusty silence of Eva’s flat.
Rory’s breath hitched. Lucien. Here. After two years of silence , of carefully constructed distance, he stood in the heart of her temporary sanctuary , smelling faintly of expensive cologne and something else, something wild and ancient that was uniquely him. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a drumbeat against the quiet hum of the city outside.
"Lucien," she managed, her voice a little rougher than she intended. "What are you doing here?"
He turned, his gaze lingering on her face. He’d always had a way of looking at her, as if he could see through the layers she’d built around herself, straight to the core of her. "A direct approach, as always. I appreciate that." He gestured to the surrounding chaos of books. "Eva’s little haven. Always so… full."
Rory crossed her arms, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “She’s out. And you know how she is about people just wandering in.” Her mind raced, trying to fit him into this moment, this life she’d painstakingly pieced together since leaving Cardiff, since leaving everything behind. A delivery driver by day, and by night, buried in Eva’s research, trying to understand… well, trying to understand a lot of things.
He took a sakta step closer, his ivory-handled cane tapping a soft rhythm on the worn floorboards. "I am not just 'people,' am I, Rory?" He stopped, close enough now that she could see the fine lines etched around his eyes, the subtle tension in his jaw. "And I believe we have a few loose ends to tie up. Or perhaps, to finally snip."
The air crackled with unspoken history. The sharp tang of old hurt mingled with a resurfacing warmth , a dangerous, intoxicating cocktail. She remembered the way he’d looked at her that last night, the words that had hung in the air , heavy with regret and unspoken longing. He’d been her anchor in the storm of London's hidden currents, a confidant and a temptation, until the storm had finally consumed them both.
"Loose ends?" Rory echoed, her voice tight . "It’s been two years, Lucien. I thought we’d agreed to let the past stay buried." Her gaze flickered to his cane, then back to his eyes. It was still the same one, the one he’d casually reveal the blade from when the situation called for it.
He chuckled, a low, melodic sound that sent a tremor through her. "The past has a way of finding us, chérie. Especially when it’s been… neglected." He extended a hand, not quite touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "You have a smudge of ink, just here." His thumb brushed lightly against her cheekbone, sending a jolt of awareness through her that had nothing to do with mischief.
Rory flinched almost imperceptibly, pulling back. "I can manage," she said, her voice brittle . The casual intimacy of the gesture, so like him, so devastatingly familiar , struck a chord she’d tried so hard to silence . She remembered the comfort of his touch, the fire it ignited, the way he’d made her feel seen, understood, and utterly undone.
"Can you?" His eyes, those impossible eyes, searched hers. "You are still living above a bar, working yourself to the bone. And yet, you surround yourself with these… dusty tomes." He gestured around the room again, his tone not mocking, but curious . "Still chasing down… answers?"
Her fists clenched at her sides. The delivery job, the cramped flat, the late nights poring over ancient scripts – it was all supposed to be miles away from the life she’d left behind, from the people who had hurt her, and from the one who had complicated everything. "I’m figuring things out, Lucien. It’s my life." The words were meant to be sharp, but they came out softer than she intended.
He stepped closer still, the space between them shrinking until she could feel the subtle shift in the air as his presence filled it. "And I respect that. But I also know you, Rory. You don't hide. You confront." His voice softened, the edges of his normally controlled demeanor fraying just a little. "You always have." He lowered his hand, his fingers trailing across her arm, a phantom touch that lingered long after he withdrew. "I came because… well, because I heard things. Whispers. About you. About your… new pursuits."
Rory’s heart leaped. Whispers. In the supernatural underworld Lucien inhabited, whispers traveled fast. He was an information broker, a fixer for the Fae and much worse. What could he have heard about her, a delivery driver with a penchant for old books? "What kind of whispers?" she challenged, her suspicion warring with an undeniable pull towards him .
He met her gaze directly now, the amusement gone, replaced by a serious intensity . "Whispers of a human woman, dabbling in arts she doesn't fully understand. Of recklessness. Of dangerous curiosity." He paused, his gaze unwavering . "Whispers that sounded very much like you were about to repeat all the mistakes I warned you against."
The implication hung heavy in the air . He’d warned her. He’d always seen the fire in her, the drive that could consume her if not properly channeled. He’d tried to guide it, to control it, and she’d fought him, terrified of losing herself in his world, or worse, in him.
"I'm not a child, Lucien," she retorted, her voice regaining some of its edge . "I can make my own decisions about what I pursue."
"And I would never suggest otherwise," he conceded, his gaze softening . "But I also remember the person who walked into my… establishment… two years ago, fleeing something she couldn’t face. Then I remember the person I fell for, the one who confronted everything head-on, the one who possessed a brilliance that deserved more than a pre-law degree back in Cardiff." He took another step, his free hand coming up to gently cup her cheek. His thumb traced the faint, crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a silent acknowledgment of the childhood trauma she rarely spoke of. "I came because I worry, Rory. And perhaps," his voice dropped to a near whisper , "because I miss you."
The raw honesty in his voice, the vulnerability peeking through his carefully constructed facade , shattered the last of her defenses. The hurt, the anger, the longing – it all swirled together, a tempest in her chest. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw not the fixer, not the half-demon, but the man who had once promised her the world and then, fractured by their own complexities, had let them both fall. The unspoken things – the arguments, the fears, the love that had burned too brightly and consumed them – all resurfaced, demanding to be heard. The air in Eva’s cramped flat suddenly felt far too small for the weight of their shared history.