Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYTNTHJAFD6K8R2BR6QRRV

first drops of rain began to spatter against the windowpane. Aurora pulled the door open, a stack of takeaway menus in Moreau stood in the dim hallway, leaning on his ivory few strands of his platinum hair free from its usual severe sweep. Water droplets glistened on the shoulders himself around Rory’s ankles. “You’re not a prawn bhuna,” she finally said, her voice tighter of Marseille and Mayfair. He made no move to come in. He just stood there, a monument to inconvenientone amber, one infinite black—taking her in. She was university jumpers, a faint smear of flour on her cheek from helping Yu-Fei with the dumpling dough earlier. She suddenly felt painfully underdressed. “What are you doing here, Luc?” “I was in the neighbourhood.” “You’re never in this neighbourhood. Unless someone’s selling cursed artifacts or information on a to rain in the corridor.” She hesitated. Letting him in felt like unlocking a door she’d spent months nailing shut. But leaving him standing in the hall felt unnecessarily cruel, even for them. With a quiet sigh, she stepped back, pulling the door wider. “Watch the books,” she said, turning her back to him and navigating the labyrinth of precariously stacked volumes and unfurled scrolls that covered every available surface of Eva’s tiny precise, the tip of his cane tapping softly on the floorboards. He closed, practiced clicks that spoke of a man who understood the valuering like a small engine. “He remembers you,” Rory said, her back still to him as she fiddled with the kettle on a cluttered counter. “Cats are excellent bent, with a slight wince she didn’t miss, and scratched behind the tabby’s ears. “Unlike landed. She turned, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over her chest. “You didn’t come here to discuss Ptolemy’s philosophical insights. Or for curry. What do you want?” He straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the chaos of the room before settling back on her. The amber eye seemed to glow in the low light., surprised laugh escaped her. “You’ve got to be joking. You have a network of informants, thieves, and half-demons who owe you favours. You don’t need me.” “This is not a matter for my usual associates. It requires a particular.” He took a slow step further into the room, his night, it was stolen.” “Call the police. Or whatever supernatural equivalent you people have.” “It is not that simple. The text contains a binding ritual. A specific one. The kind that could of his earlier levity were gone. “The thief was an amateur. A human, scared, and now in possession of a weapon he does not comprehend. He is hiding, and he is panicking. A dangerous combination.” “And you think I can find him?” She shook her head. “Luc, I deliver noodles for a living. I’m not a detective.” “You see patterns others miss. You think in ways that are… delightfully oblique.” He gestured to the organised chaos of. And you know this city. The parts of it that do not appear on maps.” He was flattering her. He was always so good at that, finding the precise compliment that was also a manipulation. It had infuriated her then, and it infuriated her now because it still worked. A faint warmth spread through her chest, a traitorous response to his words. “Why you?” she asked, deflecting. “Why does the great Lucien Moreau care about a stolen book?” Something dark flickered in his eyes. “The collector was a friend.” The admission surprised her. Lucien didn’t have friends; he had assets and liabilities. “I’m sorry,” she said, the words coming out softer than she meant them to. He gave a slight, dismissive shake of his head. “The sentiment is noted, but unhelpful. What would be helpful is your assistance. The word he should not and unmakes himself, to her doorstep once more. “You left,” she said quietly, the words directed at the window. “You walked out that time has passed at all. Like you didn’t—” “I know, but she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint scent cutting through the smell of old paper and spices. “Do it.” She turned to face him. The space between them was electric, charged with all the things they hadn’t saidothered it. “Then why?” “Because it was the only way to keep you safe!” The words burst from him, uncharacteristically loud, raw. Ptolemy startled and darted under the table. Lucien’s hand was clenched white around the head of his cane. “The things I am involved in, the people… my absence was the only protection I could offer you. A clean break. A wall.” own anger rising to meet his. “I asked for honesty. For you to let me in. Just once.” “And what would you have had me say?” He took the final step, a Duke of Avaros who considers humanity a plac get a message to me? That every moment I spent with you was a risk I had no right to take?” His amber eye blazed. “You wanted a normal life, Rory. A life away from men like Evan. Awayd laid it all bare, the truth he’d always kept shrouded in mystery and half-answers. It was terrifying. It was the most honest thing he’d ever said to her. “You don’t get to make that choice for me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You don’t get to decide what’s too dangerous for me to know. What if I wanted to choose you anyway?” The fight seemed to drain out of him. The tension in his shoulders eased, and for the first time, he looked simply tired. “Then you would have been a fool. And I would have loved you for it.” The word hung in the air between them, vast and fragile. *Loved*. Past tense. A completed action. A door closed. The kettle chose that moment to scream, a shrill, mundane sound that shattered the intensity of the moment. Rory jumped, turning automatically to switch it off. Her hands were shaking. She kept her back to him, focusing on the simple task of making tea. Two mugs. Milk in both. No sugar for him. The habits of intimacy were still there, ingrained. She heard the soft tap of his cane as he moved to the small table, clearing a space among Eva’s papers to sit. The silence now was different, heavy with admission and the echo of that one, devastating word. She brought the mugs over, setting his down in front of him. She didn’t sit. “Tell me about the text,” she said, her voice all business, a feeble attempt to rebuild the walls he’d just dismantled. “What does it look like?”