Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9QEJ27YN3S36GQ93PB2JA

The bell jangled. Rory paused, towel in hand, and glanced at the clock. 9:17. She’d closed up the restaurant’s late dinner order twenty minutes ago, too wired to sit still. Brushed a strand of hair behind her ear—shoulder-length, black, still damp from the rain she’d run through to drop off a curry to a club in Camden. The bell jangled again, a little louder. She dried her hands on her apron, the one Yu-Fei had insisted she keep, then crossed the room. The peephole showed a man she didn’t expect. Tall, platinum hair slicked back but a few strands sticking up from the drizzle. Charcoal suit, tailored to within an inch of his life. Ivory cane propped against his thigh. She unlocked the three deadbolts, flipped the chain, and pulled the door open a crack. “Rory,” he said. Voice low, accented. French, but not the soft kind—sharp, like a blade honed. She didn’t move. “What are you doing here, Lucien.” He pushed past her before she could say more, stepping into the flat. The door closed behind him, a soft click. The bar below rumbled—Silas was tuning his guitar, the string plucking off-key. Ptolemy, the tabby, stretched on the arm of the chair, then yawned, revealing tiny teeth. “Your place smells like turmeric and regret,” he said, nodding at her apron. “Yu-Fei’s today?” “Who let you in?” She crossed her arms, the scar on her left wrist sliding under her sleeve. It was a crescent, from a kitchen knife when she was twelve, slicing through a melon. Evan had called it “cute” once. “You need something, or can I—” “Silas knows I’m here.” “Of course he does.” She sighed, stepped back, and closed the door. Leaned against the frame, watching him. His amber eye glinted in the lamp light—the left one, the black one just a shadow. He kept his cane pressed to the wall, like he didn’t trust the floor. “Eva’s not here. She’s in Dublin until next week.” He nodded, like he’d known that. Turned, looked at the mess of books—Eva’s research, about fae and runes. A rolled-up map of the city was on the table. “You still hate the shade in here.” “Better than the sun,” she said. “It burns my eyes.” He sat in the armchair Ptolemy had vacated, the cane thumping once against the floor. “I need a favor.” She raised an eyebrow. “You? Asking for a favor? I thought you prided yourself on making people come to you.” He didn’t flinch. “Evan.” The name hit her like a fist. She tensed. “You’re late.” “Past tense, you meant.” He didn’t smile. “He’s in London.” Rory’s throat went dry. She pushed off the doorframe and crossed to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water. Chugged it. “So?” “He’s打听 about you.” “So let him. I don’t care.” “ He’s been asking about Eva, too. At the bar. Silas said he was standing outside the door when you left this morning.” She stopped halfway to the sink. “What did you tell him?” “Nothing. I don’t talk to louts.” Her hand tightened around the glass. It creaked. “You shouldn’t have come here. I’m done with all of it—Evan, the past, you.” “Are you?” He stood, cane steady. “Because last time you said that, you were crying in my car, because your ex had broken into your flat. Remember? You begged me to stay.” The words hung. She stared at him, her chest tight. He’d always seen the cracks, the parts of her she tried to hide. The Luc who’d fixed her flat when Evan had trashed it, who’d stayed up all night bandaging her hand when she’d cut it on a shard of glass. The Luc who’d left three months ago, without a word, just a note: *I can’t protect you from what’s coming.* What’s coming. She’d found out later, from a contact—something about his demon father’s realm, a war, and he’d been pulled back. Left her to face Evan alone. “You promised,” she said, quiet. “I had to.” “No, you didn’t.” She stepped closer, the water glass forgotten. “You could have stayed. *Tried*.” He opened his mouth, then closed it. The amber eye flickered, darker. “Do you think I wanted to? To leave you? I’d burn Avaros to ash if it meant keeping you safe. You think this—” He gestured to his suit, to the cane, to the knife hidden inside “—is a choice? I’m a weapon, Rory. A tool. You think Evan’s the worst of it? Wait till you see what the others will do once they find out you’re mixed up with a half-demon.” “You called me *mixed up*?” Her voice broke. “I stood by you when your father threatened to have you killed. I didn’t flinch when the fae tried to curse you. But you? You run when it gets hard.” He took a step forward. Brushed a finger over her cheek. Her skin burned where he touched it. “I run because I can’t see you get hurt. You’re the only good thing in this sodding city. The only thing that makes me want to stop being a monster.” The scar on her wrist throbbed. She grabbed his hand, laced their fingers together—his skin cool, hers still warming from the glass. “You don’t have to be a monster with me. You never did.” He leaned in. His breath hit her nose—cinnamon, like he’d been eating a pipe. “I missed you.” She didn’t answer. Let him kiss her, hard, like he meant it—like he wasn’t going to leave again. His cane clattered to the floor, forgotten. She could taste the bourbon on his lips, the same one she’d watched him sip from his flask last winter, when she’d brought him a cold curry that had gone off, because he’d looked lonely. The cat mewed, jumping onto the arm of the chair. He pulled back, forehead pressed to hers. “Don’t make me wait again.” She smiled, a crack in the walls. “Consider it… a second chance.” He kissed her again, slower this time, and for a moment, there was no Evan, no Avaros, no past. Just the two of them, in her cramped flat above a curry house, with a tabby cat judging them from the armchair. The door opened. Silas leaned in, guitar case in hand. “Sorry to interrupt—” He stopped, saw them, and cleared his throat. “—but the regulars are asking for the blues. You two done gawking, or you gonna pay attention?” Rory laughed, still holding Lucien’s hand. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Be right there, Silas.” Silas closed the door, but they could hear him chuckling as he walked down the stairs. Lucien sat back in the chair, pulled her onto his lap. Ptolemy curled up on their feet. “Next time, bring wine,” she said, smiling. He raised an eyebrow. “Wine? You want wine? I’ll go fetch a case.” She kissed him again, deeper. The world outside the door might be terrible, but in here, with him, it felt like a beginning. The bell jangled. Rory sighed, but didn’t move. Lucien smirked. “Silas is *definitely* not bringing wine.” “We can still have bourbon,” she said. He grinned. “Deal.” They kissed again, the world fading away.