Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8XY7CGCDZKJS7916BXJYM

The third deadbolt stuck, Rory’s calloused delivery-hand—sore from hauling a stack of dim sum containers to Silas’ bar that morning—jiggling the brass key until it gave with a grating snick. Curry fumes—garlic sharp enough to prickle her sinuses, cumin thick as a blanket—wafted up from the restaurant below Eva’s Brick Lane flat, clinging to the frayed strap of her Golden Empress bag where a smudge of soy sauce had dried that afternoon and a crumpled receipt from Silas’ bar peeked out of the side pocket. She pushed the door open, ready to dump her bag on the nearest stack of scrolls and hunt down Ptolemy’s tuna tin (Eva had left a note taped to the fridge warning he was on a hunger strike), when she froze. Lucien stood in the middle of the cramped one-bedroom, his tailored charcoal suit a stark contrast to the chaos of Eva’s research: scrolls rolled and stacked like fallen columns, books splayed open to pages marked with neon post-its, a mug of moldy tea balancing on a leather-bound copy of her old Pre-Law textbook (the one she’d left there when she’d dropped out, too ashamed to bring it to her flat above Silas’ bar). His platinum blond hair was slightly less slicked than she remembered, a single strand falling across his forehead to frame his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—eyes that had haunted her dreams for six months. His ivory-handled cane tapped once against the linoleum, the sound sharp enough to rouse Ptolemy from a curl of scrolls on the windowsill; the tabby arched his back, hissing so loudly the teacup rattled and a neon post-it fluttered to the floor. Rory’s bright blue eyes narrowed. She had not expected to see him here—not after he’d vanished without a note, not after the kiss that had left her reeling in this very room (her back pressed against a stack of demonology scrolls, his hand on her waist), not after she’d spent weeks replaying his last words (I have to go) until they felt like a knife twisted in her chest. She shifted her weight, her left wrist tingling where the crescent scar from her childhood bike crash sat; he’d traced it once, his thumb soft against the faded white line, and asked if Eva had been there to patch her up (she’d said yes, that Eva had used a band-aid with a dinosaur on it and made her hot cocoa). “What are you doing here?” Her voice was cooler than she felt, the cool-headedness she relied on at work to defuse irate customers kicking in to mask the way her heart was thudding against her ribs hard enough to make her breath catch. She slung her delivery bag over a stack of scrolls labeled Avaros Gate Lore (Eva’s latest obsession, one Rory had dismissed until now) and crossed her arms, her free hand brushing the crumpled receipt in her pocket. Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I came to warn you.” His accent was faint, a Marseille lilt she’d once found intoxicating when he’d spoken French to a supernatural contact in a Soho alley, now sharp with urgency. “Evan is back. And he’s not alone.” Rory’s breath caught. Her abusive ex, the reason she’d fled Cardiff to Eva’s flat in the first place (Eva had texted her at 2 a.m. saying Get on the next train to London—I’ve got a couch for you), the reason she’d taken the delivery job to lay low and avoid her father’s barrister office calls. Lucien had helped her hide from him six months prior, using his info broker connections to scrub her name from Evan’s contacts, to make sure her father’s office couldn’t track her down via her old Pre-Law student ID. She’d thought he’d done it out of kindness—until he left. “Warn me?” She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that made Ptolemy hiss again. “You vanished before I could even ask you why you’d bothered helping me. For all I know, you sold my location to him to pad your ledger—you’re an info broker, after all. Why pass up a payday from a man who’d do anything to find me?” Lucien’s cane tapped again, harder this time, the sound echoing off the scroll-lined walls. “That’s not true.” His amber eye flickered to her left wrist, to the scar, and she fidgeted with the cuff of her gray hoodie to cover it (the hoodie had belonged to Eva, too big for her but warm). “My father—he’s from Avaros. He found out about you when I used my demon connections to hide you from Evan. He was going to use you to force me back to his realm, to make me take his place as a gatekeeper for the demon hordes that lurk beyond the gates. I couldn’t let him touch you. So I left. I ran to Marseille to confront him, to make him promise to leave you alone. But he lied.” Rory’s resolve wavered. She’d spent six months telling herself he’d used her—her Pre-Law knowledge of legal loopholes to help him avoid a supernatural arrest, her connection to Eva’s supernatural research to track Avaros gates, her fear of Evan to manipulate her into giving him info on Cardiff’s underground—as a pawn in his underworld games. But the way his black eye clouded with guilt, the loose thread on his suit cuff (a sign he’d been rushing, something she’d never seen in the impeccably dressed fixer who’d once spent ten minutes adjusting his tie before a meeting), made her question everything. She stepped closer, the gap between them narrowing until she could smell his cologne—sandalwood and smoke, the same scent he’d worn the night they’d kissed, a scent that had clung to her hoodie for days after he left. He was 5’11”, tall enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes, and she remembered how his hands had felt on her waist, how his thumb had traced her scar mid-kiss, how she’d almost told him she’d dropped out of Pre-Law because of him—because he’d made her realize she didn’t have to live her father’s dream of becoming a barrister, that she could choose a life that was hers. “I had things to say,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she thought of the note she’d written him and left on his cane (I quit Pre-Law. Thank you) that he’d never seen because he’d vanished before she could give it to him. “I was going to tell you I quit Pre-Law. That I didn’t want to be my father’s clone anymore. That when you helped me hide from Evan, you made me feel like I could choose my own life—like I didn’t have to be the daughter he wanted, the barrister he’d planned for since I was a kid.” Lucien’s hand lifted, his fingers hovering over her left wrist. “I had things to say too.” His thumb brushed the edge of her scar, and she didn’t pull away. “I was going to tell you that you’re the first human who didn’t flinch when I told you I was half-demon. That when I saw you fumbling with those deadbolts six months ago, your hair messy from the train ride, your eyes red from crying, I knew I’d do anything to keep you safe. That I’ve been watching you from afar—making sure Evan didn’t find you, making sure your delivery routes were clear of supernatural trouble, making sure Silas kept an eye on you when you were at his bar.” Ptolemy padded over, rubbing his tabby body against Rory’s leg until she bent to scratch his chin (his fur was soft, matted a little from sleeping on scrolls). The cat purred, a low rumble that cut through the tension, and Lucien smiled—a small, sad smile she’d never seen before, a smile that made his amber eye crinkle at the corner. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back,” she said, standing up again, her knee brushing a stack of law textbooks she’d left there when she’d dropped out. Her eyes darted to his cane, to the ivory handle that concealed a thin blade—something he’d revealed to her once when a demon thug had tracked them to Silas’ bar and he’d pulled the blade to scare him off. “I thought you’d forgotten about me. That I was just another job, another piece of info to sell.” “I could never forget you,” he said, and this time his hand closed around her wrist, his touch gentle enough that she didn’t feel threatened, that she felt safe—something she hadn’t felt since he left. He traced her scar again, his fingers warm against her skin, and she leaned into him, her body responding to his presence despite the hurt she’d carried for six months, despite the nights she’d cried into Eva’s hoodie because she’d thought he’d left her for good. The kiss was slower than the last one, softer, filled with all the unsaid words they’d been carrying—her gratitude, his guilt, their attraction, their fear. Lucien’s cane clattered to the floor, his free hand wrapping around her waist to pull her closer, and Rory’s arms went around his neck, her fingers tangling in his platinum hair (it was softer than she remembered, the slick gel wearing off at the roots). The curry fumes faded into the background, replaced by the scent of his cologne, the sound of Ptolemy’s purring, the rustle of scrolls as they shifted their weight to lean against a stack of demonology books. When they pulled away, Rory’s heart was still thudding, but it was a different kind of thud—one of hope, not fear. She looked around the cramped flat, at the books and scrolls that had been her refuge for so long, at Ptolemy curling up on a stack of scrolls labeled Avaros Gate Lore, at Lucien’s cane lying on the floor, at the crumpled receipt from Silas’ bar peeking out of her bag, and she knew things would never be the same. “Evan’s working with a low-level demon from Avaros,” Lucien said, his voice soft against her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “He’s trying to open a gate in the basement of the curry house below. He thinks it’ll give him the power to track you down and make you come back to him. But it’ll also let more demons through—demons that will tear this city apart.” Rory nodded, her mind racing with the info Eva had left in her scrolls, with her mother’s Welsh storytelling about old myths (maybe those myths were true, after all). She reached down, picking up his cane and handing it to him, her fingers brushing his (his hands were calloused too, from holding the cane for so long, from pulling the blade to fight off demons). “Then let’s plan. Eva’s scrolls have info on Avaros gates. My mother taught me to read old Welsh texts—she said they were stories, but maybe they’re research. I can help you translate them. We can stop him.” Lucien smiled, this time a real smile, his amber eye glowing faintly with a flicker of demon light that didn’t scare her. “I knew I could count on you.” They sat down on the floor, surrounded by scrolls and books, Ptolemy jumping into Lucien’s lap to curl up between them (the cat’s purr was loud now, a comforting hum). Rory pulled the crumpled receipt from her bag and tucked it into a scroll labeled Avaros Gate Weaknesses, a reminder of the life she’d built since she’d fled Cardiff, the life she was going to fight for. The curry fumes drifted back, warm and familiar, and for the first time in six months, Rory felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be. She leaned her head against Lucien’s shoulder, his cologne wrapping around her like a blanket, and began to trace the edges of a scroll with her free hand—ready to face whatever came next, as long as she wasn’t facing it alone.