Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ99Z2PKMH6835ZWPBR7J3

The third deadbolt clicked. A chain rattled. Then the door swung open just wide enough for Eva’s sleep-tousled face to appear in the gap, one eye squinting against the hallway light, the other still half-shut. She blinked, took in the figure standing there, and froze. Aurora didn’t wait for an invitation. She shouldered past, the scent of rain and exhaust clinging to her jacket, and let the door slam behind her. The flat was exactly as she remembered—stacks of books teetering like drunkards, yellowed scrolls pinned to the walls with knife-hilt tacks, the air thick with the smell of old paper and Eva’s jasmine incense. Ptolemy, the tabby, uncurled from his perch on the windowsill and stretched, tail flicking in lazy judgement. Eva exhaled through her nose, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Well. This is a surprise.” Aurora didn’t turn around. She tossed her keys onto the counter, where they skidded into a pile of loose tea leaves. “Yeah. Bet it is.” Silence. The kind that hummed, heavy with everything neither of them was saying. Eva finally shut the door and leaned against it, arms crossed over her rumpled pyjama top. The fabric was thin, nearly transparent where the light hit it, and Aurora’s fingers twitched before she forced her hands into her pockets. “You look like hell,” Eva said. Aurora shot her a look. “Thanks.” “No, I mean—” Eva gestured vaguely at her face. “You’ve got… *something* under your eyes. And your hair’s a mess.” Aurora touched her wrist, fingers brushing the crescent scar before she caught herself. “Been a long night.” “Uh-huh.” Eva pushed off the door and padded barefoot toward the kettle. “Tea?” “No.” “Right. Because you’re here to yell at me.” The kettle hissed to life. Aurora watched Eva’s back—the way her shoulders moved, the dip of her spine beneath the thin cotton. Three years, and she still knew the exact spot just below her left shoulder blade that would make her shiver if touched. “Why’d you leave?” Eva’s voice was too casual, like she was asking about the weather. Aurora’s laugh was sharp. “You *know* why.” “Do I?” The kettle clicked off. Eva didn’t turn around. “Last I heard, you were packing a bag. Next thing I know, you’re gone. No note. No call. Just—poof. Like a fucking magic trick.” Aurora’s jaw tightened. “I *told* you. I couldn’t stay.” “Bullshit.” Eva finally faced her, hands gripping the counter. “You could’ve stayed. You *chose* not to.” The words hung there, raw and ugly. Aurora looked away, her gaze snagging on the spine of a book—*Demonology and the Infernal Courts*—half-buried under a stack of takeaway menus. Luc’s handwriting scrawled in the margins. She’d recognise that slanted, precise script anywhere. “You’re still working with him, then.” Eva followed her gaze. “Lucien? Yeah. Why?” “No reason.” “Liar.” Eva stepped closer, close enough that Aurora could see the dark smudge of ink on her collarbone, the faint scar above her eyebrow from the bar fight in Brighton. “You’re not here to ask about Luc. So what *is* this?” Aurora swallowed. The flat suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. She could hear her own pulse in her ears. “Evan’s out.” Eva went still. “What?” “Prison. Early release. Good behaviour.” Aurora’s laugh was hollow. “Guess he fooled the parole board.” Eva’s face darkened. “When?” “Three days ago.” A beat. Then Eva was moving, shoving past her to yank open the drawer by the door. She pulled out a knife—short, wickedly curved—and pressed it into Aurora’s hand. “Here.” Aurora stared at the blade. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” “Stab him if he comes near you.” “I’m not stabbing anyone.” “Then what’s your plan, Rory? Huh?” Eva’s voice rose, sharp with something that wasn’t quite anger. “You just gonna *hope* he doesn’t find you? Hope he’s *changed*?” Aurora’s grip tightened around the knife. “I handled it before.” “Barely!” Eva’s hands clenched into fists. “You were a *wreck*. You think I didn’t see the bruises? The way you jumped every time someone raised their voice?” Aurora flinched. “I’m not that person anymore.” “No?” Eva’s eyes burned. “Then who the *fuck* are you? Because the Rory I knew wouldn’t have run. She wouldn’t have *left*.” The words hit like a slap. Aurora’s chest ached. “I had to.” “Why?” “*Because I couldn’t breathe here!*” The admission tore out of her, raw and ugly. Aurora’s voice cracked. “Everywhere I looked, there you were. And I—” She stopped, pressed her lips together. Eva’s breath hitched. The space between them was a live wire. “You *what*?” Eva’s voice was barely a whisper. Aurora’s throat worked. The knife felt too heavy in her hand. She set it down on the counter with a clink. “I couldn’t do it anymore. Pretend it was just friendship. Pretend I didn’t—” She broke off, shook her head. “It was easier to leave.” Eva’s face went pale. Then, slow, like she was afraid Aurora would bolt, she reached out and touched her wrist. Just above the scar. Just where she used to. Aurora’s breath stuttered. “Three years,” Eva said, voice rough. “Three *years*, and you show up now because *he’s* back?” Aurora didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Eva’s fingers slid up, traced the line of her pulse. “You’re shaking.” “I’m fine.” “You’re a terrible liar.” Eva’s thumb brushed her skin, back and forth, back and forth. The touch was maddening. “Stay.” Aurora’s laugh was bitter. “That’s rich.” “Stay,” Eva repeated, voice firmer. “Not because of *him*. Because of *me*.” The air between them was electric. Aurora’s gaze dropped to Eva’s mouth, the way her lower lip was caught between her teeth. She remembered how it felt to kiss her—like drowning and flying at the same time. “Why?” Aurora whispered. Eva’s hand cupped her cheek. “Because I was an idiot. Because I *missed* you.” Aurora’s breath hitched. She should step back. Should leave. But Eva’s thumb was tracing her cheekbone now, and her skin was on fire, and— “Eva—” “Shut up.” Eva’s other hand found her hip, pulled her close. “For once in your life, *shut up*.” And then her mouth was on Aurora’s, hot and desperate, and Aurora *melted*. Three years of missing this, of dreaming about it, and here it was—Eva’s hands in her hair, Eva’s body pressed against hers, Eva’s teeth nipping her lower lip just the way she liked. Aurora gasped, and Eva deepened the kiss, her tongue sweeping in, tasting of sleep and something sweet—chocolate, maybe, from the half-eaten bar on the nightstand. Aurora’s hands found Eva’s waist, gripped the fabric of her pyjama top, and for a second, she let herself *have* this. Let herself pretend the last three years hadn’t happened. Then she pulled back. Eva’s eyes were dark, her lips swollen. “What?” Aurora’s chest heaved. “We can’t just—” “*Yes*, we can.” Eva’s hands tightened on her hips. “We *should*.” Aurora shook her head, even as her body screamed at her to stop talking, to *stay*. “It’s not that simple.” “Why not?” “*Because!*” Aurora stepped back, putting space between them. Her skin felt too tight. “Because last time we did this, I ended up leaving. Because *you* let me.” Eva flinched. “That’s not fair.” “Isn’t it?” Aurora’s voice was raw. “You *knew* how I felt. You knew, and you *didn’t say anything*.” Eva’s jaw set. “I was scared.” Aurora laughed, sharp and humourless. “Scared? *You*? Eva, you face down demons for a living.” “This was different.” Eva’s voice dropped. “You were different.” The admission hung between them, heavy and fragile. Aurora looked away, her gaze landing on the knife still sitting on the counter. The blade glinted in the dim light. “What do you want from me?” she asked quietly. Eva didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, softer: “Everything.” Aurora’s breath caught. Eva reached for her again, slower this time. “Stay. Let me—” She stopped, swallowed. “Let me keep you safe. Not just from *him*. From… whatever’s got you running still.” Aurora’s throat ached. She wanted to. God, she *wanted* to. But the flat was too small, the memories too loud. And if she stayed, she’d have to admit that she’d never really left. She stepped back. “I can’t.” Eva’s hands dropped. “Rory—” “I *can’t*.” Aurora’s voice broke. She turned, grabbed her keys, and was at the door before Eva could stop her. “Aurora, *wait*—” The door slammed behind her. The lock clicked. And just like that, she was back in the hallway, gasping like she’d run a mile, her lips still burning from Eva’s kiss. Ptolemy yowled from the other side of the door, indignant. Aurora pressed her forehead against the wood and closed her eyes.