Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB47FR5PMD8QRAFYYZFJ3S

The third deadbolt clicked, then the final one. Eva never skimped on security, a habit Rory understood more and more these days. She braced herself, hand hovering near the doorknob. It had been six months. Six months of carefully constructed avoidance. Six months of replying to Eva’s texts with polite delays and noncommittal emojis. Six months of pretending the burn in her chest had faded. She turned the knob. He was leaning against the doorframe, looking entirely too comfortable. Lucien. Even after all this time, the sight of him stole the air from her lungs. The tailored charcoal suit, the slicked-back platinum blond hair, the faintly amused expression – it was all infuriatingly familiar. And devastatingly attractive. He hadn’t changed a damn thing. Except, maybe, the intensity in his mismatched eyes. The amber one seemed to hold a flicker of…expectation? The black one was unreadable, as always. “Rory,” he said, his voice a low, melodic rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. The accent was still thick, still French, still capable of dismantling her composure with a single syllable. She swallowed, forcing words past the tightness in her throat. “Lucien. What are you doing here?” He pushed himself off the doorframe, the movement fluid and graceful. He didn’t step *into* the flat, not yet. He remained on the threshold, as if gauging her reaction. He held his ivory-handled cane casually in one hand, the concealed blade thankfully remaining hidden. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d pay a social call.” “The neighborhood?” she echoed, skepticism dripping from her voice. “Lucien, you live in Mayfair. Brick Lane is not ‘in your neighborhood’.” A ghost of a smile played on his lips. “Distance is merely a construct, *chérie*. I make exceptions.” She glared at him. He was doing it on purpose. Provoking her. Testing her. He always did. “An exception for what, exactly? To remind me how much of a mess things are?” His expression sobered slightly. The amusement vanished, replaced by something unreadable. “That wasn't my intention.” “Really? Because last time we spoke, you made it abundantly clear that you wanted nothing to do with me.” “I said… things,” Lucien admitted, his gaze dropping to her wrist for a fleeting moment before rising to meet her eyes again. She instinctively pulled her sleeve down, covering the small crescent-shaped scar. He’d seen it countless times, knew its story, but she still didn’t like him looking at it. It was a reminder of vulnerability, of a past she’d rather forget. “I was… agitated.” “Agitated? You practically accused me of being a liability.” “You *were* putting yourself in danger. And I… I’m not equipped to handle the kind of chaos that follows you, Rory.” The words stung, even though she knew, logically, that he had a point. She attracted trouble. It was a talent, she sometimes thought. And Lucien, with his carefully curated life of discreet power, preferred to stay on the periphery. “So that’s it? You’re just good at staying safe?” “It’s more complex than that.” “Is it? Because it sounds pretty simple to me.” She crossed her arms, trying to project an air of indifference she didn’t feel. He finally stepped inside, his movement deliberate, taking up space in the small hallway. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, arched his back and hissed from atop a precarious stack of books. Lucien’s eyes flickered towards the cat then back to Rory. “This place is…as delightfully cluttered as I remember.” “Don’t change the subject.” “I’m not. I’m merely observing. Eva has always had a certain…enthusiasm for acquiring knowledge.” “And you have a talent for avoiding direct answers.” She gestured around the flat. Books lined every wall, spilling onto the floor. Scrolls and maps were tacked haphazardly to the door. The air smelled of old paper and curry. It was chaotic, yes, but it was *Eva*. Lucien’s gaze softened as he took in the room, and for a moment, the hard edges around his face seemed to relax. "She's well?" “She’s fine. Currently researching some obscure Icelandic rune. Came up with a theory as to its connections to Avaros.” His eyes sharpened. Avaros. The demon realm his father hailed from. “Interesting.” He paused. “I believe I came at a bad time.” “You always do,” Rory muttered under her breath. He heard her. She knew he heard her. He didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he walked further into the flat, stopping near a small teacup precariously balanced on a stack of grimoires. "Eva still doesn’t believe in coasters.” It was a ridiculous observation, and it sparked a flicker of amusement within Rory despite her best efforts. It was a shared memory, a tiny, insignificant detail that only they understood. “Never has,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “She says they impede the flow of energy.” “Naturally.” He picked up the teacup, examining it with a wry smile. “So, what have you been up to, Rory? Still delivering for Yu-Fei?” “Still delivering.” She shrugged. “It pays the rent.” “And allows you to run around London, getting into trouble.” “I don’t *get* into trouble,” she protested, though even she didn’t entirely believe it. “Trouble finds me.” “A convenient excuse.” He set the teacup down, carefully avoiding the stack of books. “It’s not an excuse,” she said, her voice rising again. “It’s a statement of fact.” Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken words. Rory found herself staring at his hands, strong and elegant, the knuckles slightly pale against the dark fabric of his suit. She remembered the feel of those hands on her skin, the way they’d traced the line of her jaw, the heat of his touch. She forced herself to look up, meeting his gaze. The amber and black eyes held hers, and she felt her resolve crumbling. “I saw him, Lucien,” she said quietly, the words barely a whisper. He stiffened. “Evan?” She nodded, her throat tight. "He was at the Golden Empress a few nights ago." “Did he… bother you?” Lucien's voice was dangerously low. “He tried. I told him to leave me alone.” The black eye narrowed. "And he did?" "Eventually." Lucien’s hand tightened around the handle of his cane. She could see the white of his knuckles. “That coward. He knows better than to…” He stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath. “Lucien,” Rory said, her voice trembling slightly. “What are you doing here?” He looked at her, his expression unreadable. Then, he stepped closer, closing the distance between them. The air crackled with tension. “I came to see if you were alright, Rory.” His voice was a husky whisper. “And perhaps… to see if there was anything I could do.” He was standing so close now, she could smell the faint scent of sandalwood and something else, something uniquely *him*. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. “You could leave,” she said, her voice barely audible. “That would be a good start.” He didn’t move. He simply looked at her, his mismatched eyes filled with a depth of emotion she couldn’t decipher. “I’m finding that…surprisingly difficult.” His hand rose, hovering near her face. She held her breath, bracing herself for… something. He didn’t touch her. He just lingered there, his fingers suspended in the air. “I miss this,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “This… tension. This arguing. This…you.”