Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYT8QACQTHBKE0VQFN8JQ8

The knock came late, just as Rory was settling into the worn armchair with a cup of tea. It was sharp, deliberate—three raps that echoed through the flat. Ptolemy leapt off the windowsill with a disgruntled meow. Rory froze, the teacup halfway to her lips. No one knocked like that. Not Eva, who had a key and a habit of barging in unannounced, and certainly not the delivery guys from the restaurant, who usually buzzed from downstairs. She set the cup down and crept to the door, her socked feet silent against the floorboards. The peephole offered a distorted view of the hallway, but she’d recognize that platinum blond hair anywhere. Her stomach twisted. Lucien. "Open the door, Rory," he said, his voice low and smooth, carrying the faintest trace of his French accent. "I know you’re there." She hesitated, her hand hovering over the deadbolt. "What do you want, Luc?" "To talk." Her jaw tightened. "Last time we talked, you walked out." "And last time we talked, you asked me to walk out." "That’s not how I remember it." "Then let me jog your memory." She stared at the door, her mind racing. It had been six months since she’d last seen him. Six months of unanswered texts and sleepless nights wondering if she’d made the right call. But now he was here, on her doorstep, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to slam the door in his face or pull him inside. With a sigh, she flipped the deadbolts and opened the door. Lucien stood in the hallway, leaning casually on his cane, his heterochromatic eyes scanning her with unreadable intensity. He looked the same—tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, the faint scent of bergamot and something darker beneath it. But there was something in his expression she couldn’t quite name. "Are you going to invite me in?" "Do I have a choice?" He tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You always have a choice, cherie." She stepped aside, and he brushed past her, his shoulder grazing hers. The faint warmth lingered as she closed the door behind him. He surveyed the flat, his gaze lingering on the stacks of books and scrolls scattered across every available surface. Ptolemy reappeared, weaving between Lucien’s legs with a purr. "Still collecting dead languages, I see," he said, pulling a scroll from a pile and examining it with mild interest. "Still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong," she countered, crossing her arms over her chest. "Occupational hazard." He set the scroll down and turned to face her. "You look well." "Cut the small talk, Luc. What do you want?" "I already told you. To talk." "About what?" "Us." She laughed, short and humorless. "There is no us." "There could be." "Not this again." He stepped closer, his cane tapping softly against the floor. "Six months, Rory. Six months of silence. What did you expect me to do?" "I expected you to respect my decision." "And what was that decision, exactly? Because from where I’m standing, it looked like you pushing me away." "I was protecting you." "From what?" "From me." He frowned, his brow furrowing. "You think you’re dangerous?" "I know I am. Evan wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, and you—" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "You don’t need my mess." "Who says I don’t want it?" "You don’t know what you’re asking for." "I know exactly what I’m asking for." She looked away, her fingers tracing the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. "You don’t get it, Luc. I’m not like you. I’m not some... supernatural wonder. I’m just a girl with a knack for languages and a past I’d rather forget." "And yet here I am," he said softly, "still standing in your doorway." "Because you’re stubborn." "Because I care about you." Her breath hitched. She turned back to him, her bright blue eyes meeting his mismatched gaze. "Why now? Why tonight?" "Because I couldn’t stay away any longer." He closed the distance between them, his hand rising to cup her cheek. His touch was warm, grounding. "Because every night I spent without you felt like a piece of me was missing." She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. "Luc..." "Tell me to leave," he murmured, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. "Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I’ll walk out that door and never look back." She opened her mouth, the words poised on her tongue, but they wouldn’t come. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. "I can’t." "Then let me in," he whispered, his lips hovering inches from hers. "Let me stay." She hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. "Okay." He kissed her then, his mouth crashing into hers with a hunger that left her breathless. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as his cane clattered to the floor. Ptolemy yowled in protest and retreated under the sofa. "You’re impossible," she gasped between kisses. "And yet here you are," he replied, his lips trailing down her neck. "Letting me in." She laughed, the sound light and free for the first time in months. "Shut up and kiss me." He obliged, and for the first time in six months, the world felt right again.