Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9YR76CWH4G8D5XEXHMPA1

The third deadbolt clicked shut with a sharp *thunk*. Rory didn’t turn around. She knew that sound. Knew the way the air in the flat thickened, like the moment before a storm breaks. Ptolemy’s tail twitched, his ears flattening against his skull. “You’re late,” she said, voice steady. Too steady. The door swung open. Lucien Moreau stood there, filling the frame like he owned it—charcoal suit stretched over broad shoulders, the amber eye catching the dim light of the hallway, the black one unreadable. His cane leaned against the jamb, ivory handle gleaming. “I had to wait for the right moment.” Rory exhaled through her nose. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.” His lips quirked, just once, before he stepped inside. The flat was small, cluttered with Eva’s books and scrolls spilling over every surface, but Lucien didn’t seem to notice. His gaze locked onto Rory like she was the only thing in the room. “You look the same.” “And you look like you’ve been drinking again.” A laugh, low and rough. “Only when I’m nervous.” She crossed her arms. “You’re not nervous.” “Aren’t I?” Ptolemy slunk between them, tail puffed. Lucien crouched—effortless, like he did it every day—and held out a hand. The cat sniffed, then batted at his fingers before deigning to press his head against Lucien’s palm. “Traitor,” Rory muttered. Lucien didn’t look up. “He remembers me.” “Animals have better memories than you do.” That got his attention. He straightened, slow, deliberate. “Is that what this is about?” “What’s what about?” “The last time we spoke.” His voice was quiet, but it carried. “You stormed out. Didn’t look back.” Rory’s fingers twitched toward the scar on her wrist, the one Evan’s ring had left. “I had things to do.” “Bullshit.” His cane tapped the floor, once. “You were running.” She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The air between them was too thick, too old, the kind of silence that hummed with things unsaid. Lucien exhaled, sharp. “I came to apologise.” Rory blinked. “For what?” “For everything.” His hands flexed at his sides. “For not being there when you needed me. For letting you think I didn’t care.” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “You never cared about anything but yourself.” His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.” “Isn’t it?” She stepped closer, close enough to see the faintest dark circles under his eyes, the way his suit jacket strained over his shoulders. “You had your life, your deals, your—” “Demons,” he finished. “Yeah, I know.” “And I had mine.” “You ran.” “And you let me.” A beat. Then, quieter: “I was an idiot.” Rory’s chest ached. “You always were.” Lucien’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist before she could pull away. His thumb brushed the scar. “You’re still bleeding.” She yanked free. “It’s nothing.” “It’s not nothing.” His voice was rough. “You left without a word. Didn’t even tell Eva where you were going.” “She knew.” “She *thought* she knew.” His fingers curled into a fist. “I had to find you.” Rory’s breath hitched. “You did?” “Took me three months.” His gaze burned into hers. “Three fucking months to track you down.” She should’ve been angry. Should’ve pushed him away. But the words stuck in her throat. Lucien’s voice dropped. “I missed you.” The words hit her like a physical force. She stumbled back, knocking into the bookshelf. A stack of loose papers cascaded to the floor. Lucien didn’t move. Just stood there, vulnerable in a way she’d never seen before. “I should’ve been there. For you. For *us*.” Rory’s hands trembled. “There is no *us*.” “There could be.” She swallowed hard. “You don’t get to decide that.” “No.” His voice was raw. “But I get to try.” Ptolemy yowled, leaping onto the couch. The sound snapped Rory back to reality. She grabbed Lucien’s wrist, yanking him toward the door. “Get out.” “Rory—” “Now.” He resisted for half a second, then let her pull him into the hallway. The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the flat. Rory leaned against it, heart pounding. Outside, Lucien didn’t move. Just stood there, silhouetted against the dim streetlight. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. She didn’t answer. “You always did have a habit of running from things that scared you.” She turned the deadbolts one by one, the clicks sharp in the silence. Lucien’s voice followed her, low and steady. “But you can’t outrun me forever.” The last bolt locked with a final *thunk*. Rory didn’t look back.