Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8T60WGRZ7FFTYN2MQG97Z

The door swung open before the second knock even landed, as if Rory had been standing just behind it, fingers hovering over the deadbolts like a cat poised to pounce. But there was no one there—just the dim glow of the hallway lamp spilling over the threshold, and the sharp, unexpected scent of bergamot and something darker, like ozone after a storm. Then she saw him. Lucien Moreau filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light, his platinum hair slicked back so severely it looked almost painted on. The amber eye caught the lamplight first, then the black one, unreadable as a still pond. He held a single black rose in one hand, its petals slightly singed at the edges, as if he’d plucked it from a place where fire still lingered. Rory’s breath hitched. *What the hell is he doing here?* “You’re late,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I told you midnight.” Lucien didn’t move. Just tilted his head, that damned cane tucked under his arm like an afterthought. “I know what time it is, *Laila*.” The nickname—soft, almost intimate—sent a jolt through her. No one called her that anymore. Not since he left. She stepped back, letting the door swing wider, but didn’t invite him in. “You shouldn’t have come.” “Oh, but I did.” His gaze flicked past her, taking in the chaos of Eva’s flat—the stacks of books, the half-empty teacups, the tabby cat Ptolemy curled on the armchair like a furry sentinel. “Still living in squalor, I see.” Rory bristled. “It’s not squalor. It’s *organized*.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Of course it is.” He stepped inside before she could stop him, the cane tapping against the hardwood floor. “You always did have a thing for controlled chaos.” She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Lucien?” He turned, leaning against the doorframe like he had every right to be there. “I need your help.” That was the last thing she expected. Rory blinked. “My help?” “With something.” His fingers twitched toward the rose, then away. “It’s complicated.” “Aren’t they all?” She exhaled sharply, rubbing her thumb over the crescent scar on her wrist—a habit when she was annoyed. “You show up after two years with a dead flower and expect me to drop everything?” “It’s not dead.” His voice was low, almost a growl. “Just… *resting*.” Ptolemy chose that moment to stretch, arching his back with a loud *pop*, and Lucien’s gaze snapped to the cat. “You still have that thing?” “He’s not a *thing*,” Rory snapped. “He’s Eva’s cat. And yes, I still have him. Unlike some people, I don’t abandon my responsibilities.” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t abandon you.” “No?” She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Then explain why you vanished without a word. Why you let me think—” “I know what you thought.” His voice cut through hers, quiet but razor-edged. “But it wasn’t true.” Rory’s chest ached. She turned away, staring at the bookshelf instead of him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?” Silence. Then, softly: “Because I was afraid.” That stopped her. She turned back, eyes wide. “Afraid?” Lucien pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. Too close. She could smell the bergamot now, sharp and citrusy, mixed with something darker—like smoke and old leather. “You have no idea what it’s like,” he murmured, “to be half of two worlds and neither of them wanting you.” Rory’s breath caught. She knew that feeling. Knew it better than most. But she also knew the look in his eyes—the way his black pupil swallowed the amber one when he was lying. Or hiding. “You could’ve said something,” she whispered. “I tried.” His hand lifted, fingers brushing the scar on her wrist. “Remember the night of the storm? You were bleeding, and I—” “I remember.” The memory flashed—rain lashing against the window, her wrist split open on broken glass, Lucien’s hands steadying hers, his voice low and urgent. *You’re going to be fine.* And then he was gone. “And then you left,” she finished. Lucien’s thumb traced the scar’s edge. “I had to.” “Because of *them*?” She jerked her hand away. “Because your demon father would’ve skinned you alive if you stayed?” His expression darkened. “You think I don’t know that?” “Then why come back?” she demanded. “Why now?” He didn’t answer right away. Just studied her, like he was memorizing the shape of her face, the way her hair fell just past her shoulders, the way her pulse jumped in her throat. “Because I need you.” The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Rory’s heart pounded. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to throw herself into his arms and let him hold her like he used to, before everything went wrong. But she couldn’t. “You don’t get to walk back in here,” she said, voice trembling, “and expect me to just—” “Forget?” His laugh was bitter. “I don’t expect that. But I need you, Rory. For this. For *me*.” She swallowed hard. “What is it?” Lucien reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound journal. The cover was worn, the edges singed. He pressed it into her hands. When she opened it, her breath left her. The pages were filled with symbols—twisting, ink-black runes that seemed to writhe when she looked too long. And at the center of it all, a name she recognized: *Avaros.* Rory’s stomach twisted. “What is this?” “A ledger,” Lucien said. “From my father’s realm. It’s a map. A way to find something—or someone—before they find me.” She flipped through the pages, her fingers numb. “You’re in trouble.” “More than you know.” His voice was rough. “And I need your help to fix it.” Rory closed the journal, her mind racing. She should say no. Should slam the door in his face and never look back. But then she looked up at him—really looked—and saw the fear in his heterochromatic eyes, the way his fingers clenched around the cane like it was the only thing keeping him upright. And she remembered the way he’d held her hand that night, steady and sure, even when the world was falling apart. “Fine,” she said at last. “But we’re doing this *my* way.” Lucien’s shoulders relaxed, just slightly. “I’d expect nothing less.” Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the couch, tail flicking, and Lucien’s gaze followed him. “You’re still letting that thing sleep on your furniture?” Rory smirked. “Jealous?” “Never.” But the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. And just like that, the past and the present collided—two people who knew each other’s secrets, who had loved and hurt and lost, now standing in the middle of a storm they couldn’t outrun. Rory took a deep breath. “Alright. Start talking.” Lucien reached for her hand, his fingers warm against hers. “I will. But first—” He pulled her close, his mouth crashing against hers before she could protest. It was desperate. Hungry. Two years of unsaid words, of longing and anger and something deeper, something that hadn’t gone away. Rory melted into him, her hands gripping his coat, her fingers tangling in his hair. The rose fell to the floor, forgotten. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t over.