Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB3YRTMVQ4FTHXKV06472J

The lock clicked, and the door swung inward on its hinges. Rory froze, her hand still gripping the knob, the cool draft from the hallway carrying the faint scent of rain-slicked streets and something sharper—cologne, expensive and familiar, like aged leather and smoke. Lucien stood there, framed in the dim light of the stairwell, his platinum hair catching the faint glow from the bulb overhead. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, the tip planted firmly on the worn linoleum, his heterochromatic eyes locking onto hers: one amber, piercing as a flame; the other black, swallowing the light whole. She stepped back without thinking, the chain still dangling loose from its hook. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, slunk between her ankles, his tail flicking like a metronome counting down to disaster. The flat behind her hummed with the low chaos of Eva's domain—books teetering on every shelf, scrolls unrolled across the kitchen table like forgotten maps, notes pinned to the walls in frantic clusters. Rory had crashed here after another brutal shift at the Golden Empress, her delivery bag slung over a chair, her black hair still damp from the drizzle. Lucien didn't move at first. His charcoal suit clung to his frame, tailored lines unbroken despite the late hour, the fabric whispering as he shifted his weight. Raindrops beaded on his shoulders, tracing paths down the wool. "You shouldn't be here." Her voice cut the air, low and edged, but he only tilted his head, a ghost of a smile curling his lips. He spoke in that smooth French lilt, words rolling like velvet over gravel. "Yet here I am, Rory. May I come in?" She crossed her arms, the crescent scar on her wrist peeking from her sleeve, a white reminder against her skin. The scar from that stupid fall off the swing set as a kid—innocent then, now just another mark in a life full of them. Her blue eyes narrowed, scanning his face for the lie, the ploy. Lucien never showed up uninvited without a reason, and reasons with him always tangled into knots. "The door's open for a reason. Three deadbolts, remember? Eva's paranoid for a cause." He glanced past her into the flat, his amber eye glinting as it landed on the cat, who now sat sentinel at her feet, green eyes unblinking. Lucien stepped forward, crossing the threshold without waiting for permission, his cane tapping once against the floorboards. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the space between them. Rory turned, her boots scuffing the rug, putting the kitchen island between them—a flimsy barrier stacked with Eva's research, yellowed pages fluttering in the draft. She snatched a mug from the counter, the ceramic warm from forgotten tea, and poured water from the kettle just to have something to grip. "What do you want, Luc? It's past midnight. I delivered your precious takeout to half of Soho tonight. If this is about a tip—" He set his cane against the wall with a soft clack, the ivory handle gleaming under the bare bulb. Straightening, he unbuttoned his coat, letting it slide off his shoulders onto a nearby chair piled with books. The motion revealed the crisp white shirt beneath, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded with faint scars—souvenirs from his demon side, she knew, though he'd never confirmed it. "Not about tips. About us. Or whatever's left of it." The words hung there, heavy as the humid air after the rain. Rory's grip tightened on the mug, steam rising in lazy curls that blurred her vision for a second. Us. That word had burned bridges between them months ago, when she'd walked out of his Mayfair townhouse after he'd promised discretion in their world—the supernatural underbelly where deals were struck in shadows and information flowed like blood. He'd fixed things for her once, pulled strings to shake Evan's shadow after the breakup, but the cost had been strings attached. Attraction had sparked fast, hot, in stolen nights amid London's fog, but hurt followed when his half-demon secrets clashed with her need for solid ground. She set the mug down harder than intended, the clink echoing. Ptolemy leaped onto the counter, weaving between her arms, his purr a low rumble that did nothing to ease the knot in her chest. "Us is done. You made that clear when you vanished into your 'networks' after that mess with the Avaros contact. Left me holding the pieces while you played fixer for demons." Lucien's jaw tightened, the black eye darkening further, like ink pooling. He moved closer, circling the island with deliberate steps, his presence filling the cramped space. The flat's walls seemed to shrink, bookshelves looming with their weight of arcane lore—Eva's obsession with the old realms, notes on half-breeds like him scribbled in margins. "I didn't vanish. I protected you. That contact knew about your involvement, Rory. Knew you weren't just some delivery girl." She laughed, sharp and without humor, turning to face him fully. Her shoulder-length hair swung forward, curtaining one eye. At 5'6", she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, but she did, unflinching. The air between them crackled, old electricity reigniting. "Protected? You shut me out. Told me it was too dangerous, that my 'human' life couldn't handle it. As if I'm made of glass." He reached out then, his fingers brushing her arm—light, testing. The touch sent a jolt through her, warm and unwelcome, stirring memories of his hands on her skin in the dim light of his study, maps of underworld territories spread beneath them like a bed. She didn't pull away, not yet. "You're not glass. You're fire, Aurora. Always have been. But fire burns if it gets too close to the wrong flames." His voice dipped, the accent thickening, wrapping around her name like a caress. Rory's breath caught, her pulse thudding in her ears. The scar on her wrist itched, as if alive with the past. She remembered the night they'd argued, words flying like daggers—her accusing him of using her as a pawn in his games, him countering that she feared her own strength. They'd parted with the door slamming, her fleeing back to Eva's, to this cluttered sanctuary where normalcy pretended to exist. Ptolemy chose that moment to butt his head against Lucien's hand, demanding attention. Lucien obliged, scratching behind the cat's ears with a gentleness that belied his reputation. The tabby's eyes half-closed in bliss, a traitorous bridge in the tension. "Even the cat trusts you more than I do." She stepped back, breaking the contact, her hip bumping the table. A scroll toppled, unrolling to reveal sketches of demonic sigils—Eva's latest fixation on Avaros, Lucien's birthplace. He bent to retrieve it, his fingers lingering on the paper, tracing a line with a precision that spoke of lifetimes in shadows. "Trust is earned, not demanded. I came because I couldn't stay away. Not after hearing you'd taken Eva's extra shifts, burying yourself in deliveries to avoid the world." Rory's eyes flashed, bright blue storming. How did he know? His networks, of course—tendrils everywhere, from street informants to supernatural whispers. She leaned against the counter, arms barred again, but her voice softened, edged with the hurt she'd buried. "You don't get to show up and play concerned. We ended because you chose your secrets over us. I won't be your side venture, Luc. Not when I've got my own scars to mend." He straightened, the scroll forgotten on the table. In two strides, he closed the distance, his cane left behind, hands finding her waist—firm, anchoring. Up close, his eyes held hers, amber and black swirling with unspoken pleas. The scent of him enveloped her, rain and cologne mingling with the flat's undercurrent of curry from the shop below. "My secrets kept you alive. And ending us? That was your choice, Rory. You walked out, left words hanging like knives." Her hands rose, pressing against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath the shirt. She could push him away, should, but the warmth seeped through, thawing the frost she'd built. Things left unsaid bubbled up—regrets over stolen kisses in alleyways, fears of his demon heritage pulling him under, her own terror of vulnerability after Evan. "I walked because it hurt too much to stay. Watching you balance worlds, knowing I'd always be the outsider." Lucien's thumbs traced circles at her sides, a silent counterpoint to his words. He leaned in, forehead nearly touching hers, breath mingling. "You're no outsider. From the moment you saw through my facade in that bar above Silas's, you were in. The attraction—it wasn't just heat. It was recognition." She searched his face, the slicked-back hair falling slightly askew, vulnerability cracking his polished exterior. Ptolemy jumped down, padding away as if sensing the shift, leaving them in the bubble of the kitchen. "Recognition of what? Pain? We're magnets for it." His laugh rumbled low, vibrating through her palms. One hand lifted, cupping her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip—gentle, electric. "Or of something real. Amid the hurt, the unsaid. I never told you how you steady me, Rory. Half-demon chaos in my veins, but you—your mind, your fire—it's the anchor." Her resolve cracked, blue eyes softening as she tilted into his touch. The flat faded—the books, the notes, the deadbolts sealing them in. History pressed close: the night he'd bandaged her wrist after a delivery gone wrong in the wrong neighborhood, his fingers lingering; the whispered confessions in French she pretended not to understand, promises of protection laced with possession. "You say that now. After months of silence." "I was wrong to let it stretch. Pride, fear. But seeing you here, in this mess of lore and life—" He kissed her then, not rushing, lips brushing hers with the weight of all the unsaid. Rory's hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, the taste of rain and regret flooding her senses. The kiss deepened, her back arching against the counter, scrolls crunching under her elbow. Hurt lingered in the edges, but attraction roared back, fierce and unyielding. When they broke apart, breaths ragged, she whispered against his mouth. "This doesn't fix everything." Lucien nodded, his black eye holding secrets, amber one alight with hope. His hands slid up her arms, thumbs grazing the scar. "No. But it's a start. Let me stay. Talk. Or don't. Just—let me in." She hesitated, the flat's clock ticking in the corner, marking time they'd lost. Ptolemy watched from afar, tail swishing. Rory's fingers traced his jaw, feeling the faint stubble, the pulse matching hers. "Door's still unlocked. For now." He smiled, full and rare, pulling her toward the couch buried under notes. They sank into it, bodies close, words spilling in fragments—apologies woven with admissions, attraction rekindling like embers to flame. The night stretched, complicated terms unraveling thread by thread, the flat a witness to their fragile reunion. Hours later, as dawn crept through the curtains, Rory's head rested on his shoulder, his arm around her, cane forgotten by the door. Unsaid things lingered, but the hurt eased, replaced by the quiet promise of more. Lucien pressed a kiss to her hair, his voice a murmur in the dim light. "We'll figure the rest." She nodded, eyes drifting shut, the world outside—the deliveries, the underworld, Eva's return—fading for the moment. Just them, tangled in the aftermath.