Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB60HGT1HFA6GN0YKFMB42

The chime above the door to Eva’s flat warbled, a tinny, unwelcome sound that cut through the scent of cardamom and coriander spilling from the curry house below. Aurora, perched on a stack of ancient scrolls attempting to decipher a particularly dense alchemical diagram, didn’t look up. The chime had been insistent for several minutes, a repeated plea for attention she’d been deliberately ignoring. She told herself she was focused. She told herself she’d deal with it later. Then the door opened. He was there. Lucien Moreau. Not a dramatic entrance, not a theatrical swirl of charcoal silk, but a simple, deliberate push, revealing a man framed by the grey London drizzle. He stood in the doorway, a silhouette of slicked-back platinum blond against the gloom, holding a small, dark umbrella. The scent of sandalwood and something sharper, something distinctly *him*, drifted into the flat. Aurora finally looked up. The diagram, the alchemical symbols, the desperate need to understand – all of it vanished instantly. It wasn’t a gradual fade, not a subtle shift in focus. It was a violent, sudden pull, like a stone dropped into a still pond. The air thickened, the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light seemed to hold their breath. “Lucien,” she said, the word a ghost in her throat. It had been years. Too many years. He didn’t smile. A small, almost imperceptible quirk of his lips was the closest thing to a gesture of recognition. "Aurora. You haven't changed." He stepped inside, the umbrella sliding into his hand with a quiet *thunk*. The flat, already crammed with the chaotic detritus of her life, seemed to shrink around him. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, materialized from behind a precarious tower of books, blinking languidly at Lucien before retreating back to his favorite spot atop a stack of maps. He didn’t seem particularly surprised. Aurora suspected he’d anticipated this. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. It wasn't a question born of genuine curiosity. It was a defensive maneuver, a carefully constructed barrier against a flood of unwanted memories. “Eva suggested I might find you,” he said, his voice a low, carefully modulated baritone, accented with a subtle Parisian lilt. He surveyed the room, his heterochromatic eyes – one amber, one black – taking in the organized chaos with an unnerving detachment. “She said you’d be… preoccupied.” Preoccupied. That was a generous understatement. She’d been wrestling with a particularly stubborn transmutation formula, haunted by a half-forgotten argument with Evan, and desperately trying to ignore the persistent ache of his absence. “I’m always preoccupied,” she replied, turning back to the scrolls, attempting to recapture the fragile illusion of control. He moved closer, the scent of sandalwood intensifying. “That’s what I noticed,” he observed, his gaze lingering on her face. "You have a way of burying yourself in the details, Aurora. It's a remarkably effective shield.” She didn’t meet his eyes. She adjusted a magnifying glass, meticulously examining a faded inscription. "It’s practical.” “Is it?” Lucien tilted his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his black eye. “Or is it a way of avoiding… things?” The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. He knew. Of course, he knew. They both did. The wreckage of their last encounter, the raw, painful parting, still clung to the edges of their memories like smoke. “Let’s not,” she said, her voice strained. “Let’s just… not.” He ignored her. He walked over to the small, battered table beside her and retrieved a glass of water from a chipped ceramic pitcher. He didn’t offer it to her. He simply placed it on the table, a deliberate, almost challenging gesture. “Eva mentioned you were working for Cheung,” he said, his voice softer now, laced with a hint of something she hadn’t heard from him in years: genuine interest. “Delivering meals. A far cry from a Pre-Law student in Cardiff.” “It pays the bills,” she replied, her fingers tracing the edge of a scroll. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. It was survival. “And you’re happy?” he pressed, the question carrying a weight she couldn’t entirely deflect. She hesitated. The truth was complicated, tangled with regret and a lingering sense of… what? Not happiness, certainly not in the conventional sense. But there was a quiet resilience, a stubborn determination to carve out a life for herself, free from the ghosts of the past. “Content,” she finally said. “I’m content.” Lucien took a slow sip of water, his gaze unwavering. “Contentment isn’t the same as fulfillment, Aurora.” He reached out, his hand hovering just above the scrolls, then withdrawing as if burned. The light caught the ivory handle of his cane, glinting momentarily before returning to the shadows. It was a subtle movement, a whisper of contact, but it sent a shiver through her. The scar on her wrist, a memento of a childhood accident, throbbed faintly. “It’s been a long time,” he said, his voice almost a murmur. “A very long time since we last… spoke frankly.” “Some things are better left unspoken,” she replied, turning away again, desperately trying to regain her composure. “Are they?” He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. The sandalwood scent filled her senses, overwhelming the smell of curry and cardamom. “Or are they just easier to bury?” She didn't answer. She couldn't. His presence, his eyes, his voice – it was all too potent, too familiar, too fraught with the unresolved feelings that had simmered beneath the surface for years. She felt a strange pull, a magnetic force drawing her back to him, even as every instinct screamed at her to resist. He leaned in, slowly, deliberately, his breath warm against her ear. “You’re a fascinating woman, Aurora,” he whispered. “Complex, guarded, and utterly captivating.” And then he kissed her. It wasn't a passionate, demanding kiss. It was hesitant, tentative, a question as much as an assertion. But it held a depth of emotion, a recognition of something lost and perhaps, just perhaps, worth reclaiming. She responded, her arms instinctively going around him, pulling him closer. The scent of sandalwood mingled with the faint metallic tang of his cane, creating a dizzying, intoxicating blend. As their lips met again, she closed her eyes, letting go of the carefully constructed defenses, allowing herself to be swept away by the current of a memory, a desire, and the undeniable, impossible pull of a man she thought she'd buried long ago. The alchemical diagram remained forgotten on the table, the ash of a half-burned candle stained the air, and for one brief, glorious moment, in the cluttered confines of Eva’s flat above Brick Lane, Aurora Carter was lost, entirely and completely, to Lucien Moreau.