Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYYPM268X11H3J5YR382EX

The knock came at three in the morning. Three sharp raps, deliberate, not frantic. Rory sat up in bed, the duvet pooling around her waist. The glow of streetlights filtered through the thin curtains, painting stripes across the floor. She hadn’t been asleep. Another knock. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. The flat was silent except for the hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Ptolemy lifted his head from his spot on the armchair, ears twitching. Rory padded to the door, pressing her palm against the wood. “Who is it?” A pause. Then, “It’s me.” That voice. Low, smooth, unmistakable. Her stomach twisted. She undid the deadbolts one by one, the clicks loud in the quiet. The door swung open, and there he was—Lucien Moreau, leaning on his ivory-handled cane, his platinum hair catching the dim light from the hallway. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a noir film, charcoal suit immaculate despite the hour, one amber eye and one black fixed on her. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said. He exhaled, a wry tilt to his mouth. “I know.” The air between them crackled, thick with everything unspoken. The last time she’d seen him, it had been in the back room of Silas’ bar, his hands on her waist, her breath hitching before she’d pulled away. Before she’d walked out. Rory crossed her arms. “It’s the middle of the night.” “I had to see you.” “Why?” He didn’t answer immediately. His grip tightened on the cane, knuckles whitening. “Because I’ve been a fool.” She snorted. “That’s not exactly news.” “No,” he agreed. “But it’s taken me this long to admit it.” A gust of wind rattled the window behind her. Rory shivered, suddenly aware of how thin her sleep shirt was, how exposed she felt standing there in the doorway. Lucien’s gaze flickered down, then back up, something unreadable in his expression. “Are you going to let me in?” he asked. She should say no. Slam the door in his face. But the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing left in the world—made her step aside. Lucien moved past her, the scent of sandalwood and something darker lingering in his wake. Rory shut the door behind him, locking it out of habit. When she turned, he was standing in the middle of the living room, taking in the mess of books and papers strewn across every surface. Ptolemy had abandoned the armchair and was now weaving between Lucien’s legs, purring. “Traitor,” Rory muttered. Lucien crouched, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “He remembers me.” “He remembers you fed him salmon last time.” He chuckled, straightening. “Still holding onto grudges, I see.” “Some of us have longer memories than cats.” The humor faded from his face. “I know.” Silence settled between them, heavy. Rory rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. Lucien took a step forward, then stopped, as if remembering he wasn’t allowed to touch her. “Why are you really here, Luc?” He hesitated. “I needed to know if you were all right.” “I’m fine.” “You left without a word.” “You didn’t stop me.” His jaw tightened. “You made it clear you wanted to go.” She had. That night, she’d been so sure—so terrified—of what she’d felt when his lips had brushed her neck, when his hands had slid under her shirt. It had been too much. Too real. Rory looked away. “It was for the best.” “Was it?” She didn’t answer. Lucien exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I could let you walk away. I told myself it was what you wanted. But every damn day since, I’ve regretted it.” Her pulse kicked. “You don’t get to do this.” “Do what?” “Show up in the middle of the night and say things like that.” He stepped closer, his cane tapping against the floor. “Then when should I say them? When it’s convenient? When it’s polite?” “Maybe never.” “Too late.” She could feel the heat of him now, the way he loomed just inches away. His eyes burned into hers, one amber, one black, both filled with something raw. Rory swallowed. “You’re not playing fair.” “I’m not playing at all.” And then his hand was on her cheek, rough and warm, tilting her face up. She could have pulled away. Should have. But she didn’t. His breath ghosted over her lips. “Tell me to leave.” She didn’t. Lucien kissed her, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world. Like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than either of them cared to admit. Rory’s hands fisted in his jacket, holding on as if he might vanish if she let go. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “Say something.” Her voice came out rough. “You’re an idiot.” He laughed, low and warm. “I know.” And then he kissed her again.