Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8TNYPTBEB74MR5GRMT1RN

The front door of Eva’s flat groaned open under the weight of a key that didn’t belong, the deadbolt clicking back with a sharp *click*. Aurora Carter stepped inside, her breath catching for a second before she forced herself to steady her pulse. The air smelled of old paper and something faintly metallic—Eva’s usual scent, but it was different here, heavier, like the flat had been holding its breath for too long. Aurora’s fingers twitched toward the scar on her wrist, the crescent-shaped mark from the childhood accident that had left her with a habit of touching it when nerves flared. She’d been here before, of course—Eva had always been the one who’d dragged her out of her own messes, but this time, the reason was different. The knock had been too insistent, the knock that made you wonder if the person on the other side wasn’t just here for the coffee. The door creaked shut behind Lucien Moreau, his cane tapping lightly against the floor as he adjusted his tailored charcoal suit. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the way his lips parted just enough to let in a breath of smoke. He wore a faint smirk, but it didn’t reach his gaze. *As if he knew.* “Aurora,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “I didn’t expect you to answer.” She exhaled through her nose, the scent of his cologne—something sharp and woodsy—clashing with the dusty library smell of Eva’s flat. “I didn’t expect you either.” Lucien’s cane paused mid-step, the ivory handle catching the dim light from the street outside. “Eva mentioned you’d be here.” Aurora’s jaw tightened. “She did.” A beat of silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of things unsaid. The flat was small, but it felt too big now, the shelves of books and scrolls suddenly too many, too loud. Aurora moved past him without looking at the cat—Ptolemy, curled up on the windowsill, his tail flicking lazily—toward the kitchen where the kettle was already whistling. “You should’ve called,” she said, pouring water into two mugs. Lucien followed her, his presence a warm, familiar pressure against her back. “I didn’t want to.” “Why not?” He turned, his fingers brushing the scar on her wrist before she could pull away. “Because I knew you’d say no.” Aurora’s breath hitched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You did.” His voice was low, dangerous. “You always do.” She turned away, pressing the mug to her lips. “I’m not here for that.” Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor again, the blade hidden beneath the ivory. “Then what are you here for?” The question hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Aurora’s fingers tightened around the mug, the heat of the water seeping into her palms. She looked at him—really looked—and saw the ghost of a scar on his cheek, the faintest line where his demon blood had once been. He’d told her stories about it, about the way the world had tried to burn him alive before he’d learned to control it. She remembered the way his hands had trembled when he’d first shown her the cane, how he’d said, *This is how I keep you safe.* “Because you’re here,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she intended. Lucien’s gaze darkened. “And you’re here because you’re not.” Aurora set the mug down with a clatter. “I’m here because I’m tired of running.” The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. Lucien’s fingers flexed around the cane, the blade glinting in the light. “You’ve been running for years.” She turned to face him, her chest aching. “I don’t know what you want from me.” “You don’t have to.” His voice was rough, like gravel underfoot. “But you’re here.” The flat felt smaller now, the space between them tighter. Aurora’s pulse hammered in her ears, the scent of his cologne overwhelming. She reached for the scar on her wrist, her fingers brushing against the old wound, the memory of the knife that had cut her there still sharp in her mind. Lucien stepped closer, his presence a physical thing, a wall she couldn’t push through. “You’re not alone anymore.” Aurora exhaled, the breath shaky. “I don’t know if I can do this.” Lucien’s eyes darkened. “Then do it anyway.” The words hung between them, heavy and final. Aurora looked at him—really looked—and saw the man she’d known once, the one who’d been there when she’d needed him, who’d held her when she’d fallen. She remembered the way his hands had been warm, the way his voice had been a promise. She turned away, her fingers brushing against the scar on her wrist one last time before she walked toward the door. “I’ll be back.” Lucien didn’t move. “You don’t have to leave.” Aurora opened the door, the cool night air hitting her face. She turned back, her heart pounding. “I don’t know if I can stay.” Lucien’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “Then don’t.” The door closed behind her, the deadbolt clicking shut with a finality that made her stomach twist. She stood there for a moment, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on her. Then she turned and walked down the street, the night air cool against her skin, the scent of Lucien’s cologne lingering in her memory. Aurora Carter had always been a runner. But tonight, she realized, she was done.