Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX5617H8KJ69S4YTACQ46X

The door handle turned with a click that was too smooth, too confident, for any delivery or pestering neighbour. Aurora Carter froze halfway through untying her boots, one foot bare, the other still crammed in worn leather. The deadbolts were undone—she must have forgotten to relock after bringing up the bin. A quiet curse slipped out. Then the door swung open. He stood there like he’d stepped from a dream she’d tried to forget—tall, immaculate, silhouetted by the dim corridor light. Lucien Moreau. His platinum hair slicked back as always, the sharp angles of his face softened by the amber glow from the hall lamp. His charcoal suit was pristine, the ivory handle of his cane catching the light like bone. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence, thick and charged. “You left the chain off,” he said. Not a greeting. Not a question. Just observation wrapped in that low, French-tinged voice that still curled something deep in her chest. Rory straightened slowly, pulling her boot back on with deliberate calm. “You broke in?” “No.” He stepped forward, easing the door shut behind him. “I knocked. Didn’t expect you to answer. You never do.” She crossed her arms, the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist catching the light as she shifted her weight. “That doesn’t explain why you’re standing in Eva’s flat like you own it.” He glanced around, taking in the stacks of grimoires teetering on coffee tables, the half-burnt candle beside a bowl of cold noodles, the tabby cat—Ptolemy—eyeing him from the back of the sofa with slit-pupil suspicion. “Still living in chaos.” “I’m borrowing it. And I tidy.” “You hide in it.” He tapped his cane lightly against the floor—a soft *tap, tap*—like he was counting seconds. She exhaled sharply. “What do you want, Lucien?” His mismatched eyes locked onto hers. One gold, one black as a starless sky. “I wanted to see you. Simple as that.” “Simple?” She barked a dry laugh. “You ghosted me for eight months. No message. No signal. Just—vanishing. And now you just *want* to see me? At midnight?” “I didn’t ghost you.” He moved further in, setting his cane against the wall with care. “I was *gone*. There was a breach in the West Tower. Took me six months to seal it without starting a war. The Council doesn’t let you call home during containment.” She didn’t believe him. Not all of it. “You had other ways. A whisper through the Veil. A coded note. *Something*.” “I sent one.” He pulled a small envelope from his inner pocket—aged paper, sealed with a drop of dark wax stamped with a serpent coiled around a dagger. Her name, scrawled in his precise hand. Rory stared at it. “I never got it.” “It was intercepted.” He pocketed it again. “By someone who knew you’d read it. And act.” She frowned. “You think someone’s watching me?” “I *know* they are.” He reached into his coat again, this time pulling out a small brass disc etched with sigils. He placed it on the table. It hummed faintly, then flared with blue light before cracking down the middle. “Ward’s dead. Has been for weeks. You’ve been unprotected.” “You put a ward on Eva’s flat?” “For *you*.” His voice dropped. “Six months ago. Didn’t think you’d stay this long.” She looked away, jaw tight. “It’s safe here.” “Nothing is safe when you’ve crossed the Crimson Hand.” He stepped closer. “You know that better than most.” Her breath caught. She turned, eyes blazing. “Don’t use *him* as an excuse. Don’t you *dare*.” “I’m not. I’m using *sense*.” He leaned in, just enough that she caught the scent of sandalwood and something older, deeper—sulphur and rain. “Evan is out. Released under a false name. And he’s asking questions.” Her blood turned cold. “About me?” “About *us*. About the night you vanished. About the man with mismatched eyes who pulled you out of that warehouse in Croydon.” She remembered that night—rain slashing sideways, her ribs cracked, Lucien stepping over bodies like they were litter. The way he’d carried her out, his coat wrapped around her shaking frame. The silence on the drive. The way he’d looked at her afterward—like she’d shattered something in him. “You never told me what happened to them,” she whispered. “I buried them where the sun doesn’t reach.” He held her gaze. “I’d do it again.” She swallowed. “That’s not the point.” “Then what is? That I kept things from you? That I protected you even when you hated me for it?” “You didn’t *protect* me. You *controlled* me. You decided what I should know. Where I should go. Who I could see.” Her voice cracked. “I’m not a piece on your damn board, Lucien.” “I know.” For the first time, his mask slipped. The amber eye flickered with something raw—regret, maybe. “I was afraid.” “Of what?” “That if I told you everything, you’d run. And if you ran, he’d find you. Or worse—someone else would.” “And now?” “Now I’m standing here. Uninvited. Unwanted. Possibly unwelcome.” A ghost of a smile. “But here.” She stared at him, pulse hammering. The air between them hummed, not with magic, but with everything they hadn’t said. The late-night conversations over gin and salt circles. The brush of his fingers when he passed her a dagger. The way he’d once traced the scar on her wrist and said, *This is where you began.* “You think showing up like this fixes anything?” she asked. “No. But it’s a start.” “You don’t get to decide that.” “I don’t. You do.” He stepped back. “I’m not here to command. Or manipulate. Or protect you from shadows you’re already strong enough to face. I’m here because I missed you. Because I wake up and reach for a phone that hasn’t rung. Because I hear a laugh in a crowded room and turn, hoping—*praying*—it’s yours.” Silence. Ptolemy leapt from the sofa and wound around Lucien’s leg, purring. Rory let out a shaky breath. “He hates everyone.” “Not everyone.” Lucien bent slowly, offering his hand. The cat sniffed, then butted his head against Lucien’s fingers. “He knows when someone’s sincere.” She looked away, throat tight. “You can’t just waltz in and—” “I know.” He straightened. “You don’t have to forgive me. Or trust me. Or even speak to me again after tonight. But I needed you to know the truth. That I chose you. Even when I walked away, I chose you.” Her eyes stung. She blinked hard. “You should go,” she said, voice low. He nodded, retrieving his cane. “I will.” But he didn’t move. And neither did she. The distance between them narrowed, not by steps, but by breath, by the tilt of a chin, by the way her fingers twitched at her side. Then she reached out. Not all the way. Just enough. Lucien stared at her half-open hand. Then, slowly, he took it. His skin was warm. Calloused. Real. And when he lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles just above the scar, she didn’t pull away.