Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAPS4JN9RKDX9MPH0AFW8P

Rory worked the third deadbolt free, her left wrist’s crescent scar pulled tight against the doorframe’s chipped paint—she’d fumbled the first two when the sharp, deliberate knock cut through her sorting of Eva’s research scrolls, each covered in Eva’s scrawled indigo handwriting about the demon realm of Avaros. She yanks the door open, breath catching before she can bite down the sound, the curry house below’s tinny bhangra music drifting up to wrap around the moment like a tangled thread. She grips the doorframe. Lucien stood on the step, tailored charcoal suit crisp despite the Brick Lane pavement’s muck and the turmeric fumes curling from the curry house’s vent, his platinum blond hair slicked back so perfectly not a strand strayed save for a single one that fell across his forehead, ivory-handled cane planted firm in the mud. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber flecked with gold, one black as the demon tongue scrolls on Eva’s shelf—locked on hers before they darted to the scar peeking out from her frayed Golden Empress delivery uniform’s cuff. I didn’t come to beg. Rory’s hand shot to the cuff, yanking it down so hard the fabric scraped her skin. She shifts her weight, blocking the door’s threshold, her gaze darting to the three deadbolts she’d just undone—proof she’d learned to guard herself after Evan, after Lucien’s disappearance. You lost the right to show up unannounced three months ago. Lucien’s cane tapped the step once, a sharp, deliberate sound that cut through the bhangra music and the curry house’s clattering dishes below. He stepped forward, his shoulder brushing hers as he pushed past—she didn’t have the strength to hold him back, not when his scent (cinnamon and burnt amber, the same as the night he’d pulled her from a demon’s clawed grasp in the alley behind her flat above Silas’ bar) wrapped around her like a blanket she couldn’t shake. The door slams behind him. Rory twists each deadbolt into place, her fingers shaking so bad she misses the second one on the first try, her mind replaying the night he’d vanished: they’d been huddled in his office, maps of Avaros spread across his desk, him promising he’d keep her safe from Evan’s supernatural allies (the ex she’d fled Cardiff’s pre-law classes to escape), and then he’d been gone by dawn, no note, no trace, just a half-empty cup of cinnamon tea on his windowsill. When she turns, Lucien is already navigating the flat’s clutter, his cane tilting to avoid a stack of leather-bound books on demon summoning that teetered by the coat rack—books Eva had borrowed from a supernatural library in Camden. Ptolemy the tabby darted from under the kitchen table, his striped body rubbing against Lucien’s cane before he leaped onto a shelf of scrolls, sending two slipping to the floor, their edges frayed from Eva’s constant prodding and note-scrawling about Avaros’ demon hierarchy. You’re tracking mud into Eva’s flat. Lucien paused, glancing at the smudges on the linoleum before he knelt—his suit’s knee creasing, a small stain appearing on the fabric that he didn’t seem to notice—and picked up the fallen scrolls, smoothing their frayed edges with a careful hand that spoke of years of handling fragile supernatural documents. She won’t mind. I’m here for you. Rory crossed her arms, her left wrist’s scar throbbing under the fabric of her uniform. She’d spent three months replaying that vanished night every time she delivered dumplings for the Golden Empress, every time she climbed the stairs to her flat above Silas’ bar, every time she saw a cinnamon stick in a market. She’d called every contact Lucien had ever mentioned—Yu-Fei Cheung, the bar’s Silas, a supernatural tailor in Soho—and all of them had said he’d dropped off the face of the underworld. You left. I called every contact you had. They all said you’d vanished without a trace. Lucien stood, the scrolls tucked under his arm, and moved toward the living area—cramped, with a loveseat buried under more research notes, a tattered pre-law textbook (her old Cardiff University one, left at Eva’s when she fled) peeking out from under a scroll. He sat, his cane leaning against the armrest, and gestured to the only free spot on the cushion, a small patch not covered in indigo-scrawled paper. Sit. I can explain. Rory didn’t move. She stared at his amber eye, the one that had crinkled when he’d laughed at her terrible joke about pre-law contracts being worse than demon pacts, and his black eye, the one that had glowed faintly when he’d spoken the demon tongue of Avaros to calm a rampaging imp. I don’t want your excuses. I want you to leave. A tattered scroll detailing Avaros’ demon lords slipped from an overflowing shelf and skitters across the linoleum floor, its edges frayed so bad the ink was peeling off. Lucien’s eyes followed it before he looked back at her, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it—softer than when he’d admitted he’d never met his demon father from Avaros. I couldn’t. If I’d told you, the demon Evan had made a deal with would have sensed your knowledge. It would have come for you faster, before I could track it to its lair in the London sewers. Rory stepped closer, the memory of Evan’s cruel words (you’ll never escape me, even in London) ringing in her ears, the letter she’d just realized Lucien had tossed to her crumpled in her hand. The flat’s air felt thick, filled with the scent of curry, cinnamon, and the faint, acrid smell of demon lore scrolls that had been handled too much. Ptolemy meowed from the shelf, his tail flicking against a book titled *Avaros: Demon Realm Unveiled*. I spent three months thinking you’d abandoned me. That all the times you’d pulled me from danger—from the imp, from Evan’s supernatural goons, from the collapsed alley behind the restaurant—were just a game to you, a way to pass the time as an information broker. Lucien stood, his suit straightening as he moved toward her—so close she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his platinum hair’s stray strand now fell across his forehead like a secret. He’d come here unannounced because he’d finally taken care of the demon, because he could finally tell her the truth, because he couldn’t stand being apart from her any longer, not when he’d spent three months tracking the demon through London’s sewers and supernatural underworld, his cane’s hidden blade drawn more times than he could count. It was never a game. Every time I pulled you from danger, I did it because I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt. Rory’s black straight hair fell in her face when she leaned forward, her breath brushing his cheek, the curry house’s turmeric fumes fading into the background as his cinnamon scent wrapped around her. She’d wanted him for so long, even when she’d hated him, even when she’d cursed his name every time she delivered dumplings, even when she’d stared at her crescent scar and wondered if he’d ever remember it. You left me with nothing. Not a word. Not a sign. Not even a single cinnamon stick, your signature mark. Lucien’s hand lifted, his fingers brushing her hair back from her face—his touch was warm, warmer than she remembered, and she didn’t pull away, not when she’d craved that touch for three months. He nodded toward the scrolls on the shelf; Rory glanced over, seeing a single scroll with a small cinnamon stick tied to its edge—his signature mark, the same one he’d left on the map he’d given her the night he’d saved her from the demon alley, a mark she’d missed because she’d been too angry to look at any of Eva’s scrolls after he’d vanished. I left a clue. You just didn’t see it. I tied it to the scroll about Avaros’ demon hierarchy, the one you’d asked me about the night before I left. Rory stepped closer, the crumpled letter in her hand now pressing against her chest. The flat’s dim lamp cast shadows across Lucien’s face, making his heterochromatic eyes look even more intense. Ptolemy meowed again, his tail flicking against a book, but she didn’t pay attention. I didn’t look. I was too angry, too hurt, too scared that if I looked at any of the scrolls, I’d be reminded of you and the way you’d left me. Lucien’s cane shifted, the ivory handle catching the light from the lamp—she noticed the faint seam along the handle, the one that hid the thin blade he’d never used in front of her. He’d come here unannounced because he’d finally taken care of the demon, because he could finally let his guard down, because he could finally tell her he’d been in love with her since the day they’d met in Eva’s flat, when she’d pointed out a mistake in his demon lore notes. I tracked it to the sewers, used my cane’s blade to cut its heart out, and buried it in a supernatural graveyard in Highgate. It’s gone for good. Rory’s left wrist’s scar throbbed again, a reminder of her childhood accident (a fall from a tree in Cardiff’s park, her father’s barrister hands wrapping around her wrist to stop the bleeding), of all the pain she’d endured since leaving Cardiff, of all the pain she’d endured because of Lucien’s disappearance. But now, standing this close to him, she didn’t feel the pain anymore. She felt the attraction that had lingered between them since the first time they’d met, the unsaid things that were finally starting to be spoken. Why now? Why not come sooner? Lucien’s hand dropped to her left wrist, his fingers brushing the scar gently—he’d never touched it before, never asked about it, but now he seemed to be memorizing its shape, its curve. I needed to make sure the demon was truly gone. I needed to cover my tracks so no other demons from Avaros would come after you. I needed to make sure I could face you without putting you in danger, without having to run again. Rory leaned into his touch, her body pressing against his—his suit was crisp, his chest firm, and she could hear his heartbeat, fast and steady, against her ear, a reminder that he was real, that he was here. Ptolemy jumped from the shelf, landing on the loveseat and curling up, his eyes closing as he drifted off to sleep. I didn’t think you’d ever come back. I thought I’d spend the rest of my life delivering dumplings and hating you. Lucien’s thumb brushed her scar, his touch soft and gentle, the same touch he’d used to fix her broken chess piece in his office. I couldn’t stay away. Not when I’d spent three months thinking about you every minute, about your bright blue eyes, your black hair, your crescent scar, the way you laugh at bad jokes even when you don’t want to. Rory pulled back, looking into his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black, the same eyes that had haunted her dreams for three months. She’d wanted to kiss him for so long, even when she’d hated him, even when she’d cursed his name, even when she’d stared at her scar and wondered if he’d ever come back. You’re here now. Lucien nodded, his fingers still wrapped around her left wrist, his cane’s hidden blade now forgotten, his guard down for the first time in three months. I’m here now. Rory glanced around the flat, at the books and scrolls, at Ptolemy sleeping on the loveseat, at the three deadbolts on the door, at her old pre-law textbook peeking out from under the scrolls. She’d spent three months hiding, three months running, three months hating, but now she didn’t have to run anymore. She had Lucien, and he had finally told her the truth. I don’t want you to leave again. Lucien’s lips twitched into that faint smile again, the same smile he’d given her when she’d beaten him at a game of chess in his office. I won’t. Not unless you ask me to. Not ever again. Rory leaned forward again, her lips brushing his—she’d waited so long for this, so long to feel his lips against hers, so long to have him close, so long to say all the things she’d left unsaid. The flat’s air felt lighter now, filled with the scent of cinnamon, the faint taste of turmeric, and the sweet scent of possibility, the bhangra music from the curry house below fading into the background as they kissed, their lips moving in sync, their hands tangled in each other’s hair, their unsaid things finally being spoken without a single word. Ptolemy meowed once, a soft, sleepy sound, but neither of them paid him any mind—they were too busy memorizing each other’s touches, each other’s scents, each other’s truths, the complicated past melting away into the quiet of Eva’s cramped flat.