Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY99TD902105RNR13F7JHTM

The brass knocker scraped against the door of Eva’s flat like a fingernail on glass, the sound sharp and deliberate. Aurora Carter stood in the narrow hallway, her breath shallow, her fingers curling around the doorknob so tight her knuckles went white. The scar on her left wrist—small but vivid—pulled at her skin, a reminder of the accident that had left her with a habit of gripping things when she was nervous. She hadn’t expected him. Not really. But here he was. Lucien Moreau stood just inside the threshold, his tailored charcoal suit immaculate, his cane resting against the wall like a weapon at ease. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers, and for a heartbeat, the air between them crackled. He didn’t speak first. That was always how it had been between them, the silence stretching like a thread between two people who knew how to read each other’s unspoken words. “You’re late,” Aurora said, her voice quieter than she intended. Lucien’s lips twitched, just a fraction. “I had to stop at the bar. Silas said you’d be here.” She exhaled through her nose, the scent of coffee and something faintly metallic—old blood, maybe—washing over her. “You know I don’t drink.” “Then why did you ask for a whiskey?” She rolled her eyes, but her fingers twitched toward the scar on her wrist. “Because you’re always the one who shows up when things get messy.” Lucien’s expression softened, just for a second. “I’m here now.” The flat smelled of dust and old paper, the kind of place that held secrets like a well-worn book. Aurora stepped back, gesturing toward the door. “Come in. Ptolemy’s probably asleep.” The cat—tabby, with stripes like a map of the world—blinked up at them from his perch on the windowsill. He didn’t move. Not yet. Lucien followed her inside, his cane tapping against the floorboards with a quiet *clack*. The flat was small but lived-in, shelves lined with books and scrolls, their spines worn from years of handling. Aurora’s flatmate, Eva, had a way of collecting things—things that told stories, things that whispered secrets. “You’ve been working late,” Aurora said, her voice low. “Again.” Lucien shrugged, but his gaze didn’t leave hers. “Demons don’t sleep.” Aurora’s stomach twisted. “You’re not here about work.” He hesitated, then reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound journal. He handed it to her. “I wanted to see if you’d still have it.” Aurora’s fingers hovered over the cover. The book had been hers once, a gift from him, a promise of something they’d never fully explored. The pages were yellowed now, the ink faded, but the weight of it felt heavy in her palm. “You didn’t have to bring it,” she said. Lucien’s expression was unreadable. “I did.” She opened it, turning the pages slowly. The first one was blank, the rest filled with sketches—portraits, half-finished, of people she didn’t recognize. Of him, maybe. Of her, too, but not the way she remembered. “You were always good at drawing,” she murmured. Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I was trying to remember.” Aurora closed the book, her thumb brushing the faded ink. “You’ve changed.” He didn’t deny it. “I’ve changed.” The silence between them was thick, the kind that settled like dust. Aurora looked away, her gaze drifting to the scar on her wrist. “You know, I used to think you were the only one who could fix things.” Lucien’s eyes darkened. “And now?” She turned back to him, her voice quieter. “Now I think you’re the only one who can’t.” Ptolemy finally stirred, his tail flicking against the windowsill. He hissed, then padded over, rubbing against Aurora’s legs. She bent down, scratching behind his ears. “You’re a terrible judge of character, aren’t you?” Lucien watched them, his expression unreadable. “I’m not here to judge.” Aurora exhaled, her shoulders relaxing just a little. “Then what are you doing here?” Lucien stepped closer, his cane casting a shadow over the floor. “I’m here because I’m done running.” The words hung between them, heavy and final. Aurora looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in years. The man standing before her was different. Older, sharper. But there was still that flicker of something in his eyes, something that made her breath catch. “You’re not running from me,” she said softly. Lucien’s gaze dropped to her lips. “No.” The flat was too quiet. Too still. Aurora reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. “Then what are you running from?” Lucien’s breath hitched. “From the past.” Aurora’s heart pounded. “Then let me help.” He looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time in a long time, she saw the man she’d fallen in love with. The one who had been there, even when she’d been too afraid to admit it. “You always were,” he said. Aurora smiled, just a little. “I always was.” Ptolemy let out a low, satisfied growl, as if he understood something she didn’t. But then, maybe he did. Maybe he’d always known.