Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYATAZ7WVSNVDPBBFBA8YX1

The door swung open before the second knock even finished echoing through the hallway. Rory stood there, her bright blue eyes widening as she took in the man framed in her doorway—Lucien Moreau, looking every inch the polished devil he was in his charcoal suit, cane tucked under one arm like it was an afterthought. The scent of rain and something faintly metallic, like old coins, clung to him, and for a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe. “You,” she said, the word coming out sharper than she intended. Lucien’s lips quirked, just slightly, as if he’d expected no less. “Bonjour, *Laila*,” he replied, using the name she’d given him years ago, the one that had always made her feel like she was slipping into a different skin. His amber eye gleamed, the black one unreadable. “May I come in?” She should’ve slammed the door. Should’ve told him to go to hell, that she wasn’t interested in whatever game he was playing. But the words died in her throat because, damn him, he looked *good*—too good, like a man who’d just stepped out of a tailored dream. And because, beneath the polished exterior, she knew the truth: he wasn’t here for small talk. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, chose that moment to weave between her legs, purring loudly, as if to say, *Oh, this is interesting.* Rory ignored him, her fingers tightening around the edge of the doorframe. “What do you want, Lucien?” His gaze flicked past her, taking in the chaos of Eva’s flat—the stacks of books, the scrolls pinned to the walls with yellowed paper clips, the half-empty teacup on the kitchen counter. “I want what I always wanted,” he said softly, stepping closer. The cane brushed against her hip, deliberate, and she flinched. “You.” The air between them thickened, charged with everything unsaid, everything *done*. Rory’s pulse jumped. She remembered the last time he’d been here, the way his hands had traced the curve of her waist, the way his voice had dropped into that dangerous, velvety tone that made her skin prickle. She remembered the fight that had followed, the way he’d walked out without looking back. “You’re insane,” she muttered, but her voice lacked conviction. Lucien chuckled, low and dark, and reached past her to press the door fully open. “Probably. But insanity has its uses.” He stepped inside, and the flat suddenly felt smaller, the walls pressing in. “I need your help.” Rory crossed her arms, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the dim light from the streetlamp outside. “With what?” “A job.” His cane tapped against the floor as he moved deeper into the room, his polished shoes clicking against the warped wood. “Something that requires… discretion.” She should’ve known it wasn’t personal. Of course it wasn’t. Lucien Moreau didn’t do personal. He did transactions—information, favors, the occasional supernatural favor call. He didn’t do *her*. But then he turned, and his heterochromatic eyes locked onto hers, and for a second, she saw the man beneath the suit, the one who had once told her stories about the stars, who had kissed her like she was the only thing in the world worth remembering. “It’s dangerous,” he said. “So am I,” she shot back. A slow smile spread across his face, and something in her chest tightened. “That’s what I’m counting on.” Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the couch, tail flicking, as if to say, *Well, this is awkward.* Rory ignored him, her gaze never leaving Lucien’s. The air between them was electric, crackling with old heat and new tension. Lucien exhaled, long and slow, as if bracing himself. “I missed you,” he admitted, the words rough, unguarded. Rory’s breath hitched. She missed him too—god, she missed him—but pride was a stubborn thing, and so was the sting of betrayal. “Bullshit,” she said, but her voice wavered. He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jawline, close enough that she could smell the bergamot and leather that always clung to him. “I never should’ve left,” he murmured. “I should’ve fought for you.” “You had your chance,” she whispered. His hand lifted, fingers brushing against her cheek, and she should’ve stepped back, but she didn’t. “I know.” The touch was featherlight, but it sent a jolt through her, a reminder of all the nights they’d spent tangled together, of the way his hands had memorized her body. She swallowed hard. “What do you want from me, Lucien?” His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and deliberate. “The same thing I’ve always wanted. A chance to make it right.” Rory’s heart pounded. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to push him away. But the truth was, she’d spent too many nights wondering what might’ve been, too many years pushing people away before he’d even had the chance to leave. “You’re impossible,” she breathed. “And you’re still the only woman who’s ever made me feel like I might actually be human,” he countered, his voice rough. She should’ve laughed. She should’ve told him to get out. But instead, she found herself leaning into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut as the world narrowed to the heat of his skin, the weight of his gaze. When she opened her eyes again, Lucien was watching her, his expression unreadable. “So?” he prompted. “Will you help me?” Rory exhaled, the fight draining out of her. “Fine,” she said, though she knew it was more than that. It was always more than that with him. “But we’re doing this *my* way.” Lucien’s smile was slow, triumphant. “I’d expect nothing less.” And just like that, the past was back, tangled with the present, and Rory realized she was in deeper than she’d ever let herself admit.