AI The bell above the door of Eva’s flat jingles, sharp and unwelcome, as Rory fumbles with a takeout container. She turns from the stove—ten-pound bag of chips in one hand, a chipped mug of tea in the other—her delivery uniform still damp from the evening’s drizzle, and freezes. The air in the cramped one-bedroom feels suddenly too small, the shelves of books and scrolls (Eva’s latest“occult history of the East End”phase) pressing in.
The guy standing on the threshold is *Luc *.
Not *Lucien *. *Luc *.
She’s not seen him in two years. Not since the night she’d woken to an empty bed and a note scrawled in his loopy handwriting: *I’m sorry. Don’t look for me *.
He’s taller than she remembers, but his posture is still that of a man who measures every step, aware of his surroundings. Platinum blond hair, slicked back so it glints under the flickering overhead bulb, and those eyes—one amber, one black, a trick of the light that used to make her forget to breathe. Today, they’re shadowed , the amber dim, the black sharp enough to cut. He’s in a charcoal suit, the fabric tailored so tightly it makes her think of the way he used to press against her, warm through the thin material of her shirt. In his hand, he carries a briefcase, leather worn at the edges, and his cane—ivory handle, she notes, the blade inside likely as sharp as the things he ’d never told her about.
“Rory,” he says, and his voice is lower, rougher, like he ’s been smoking too much. It ratches a nerve she’d thought cauterized.
She sets the chips down hard, the bag crinkling. “What are you doing here.”
Her tone is steady, but her fingers flex around the mug—too tight, the ceramic hot enough to burn. The scar on her left wrist itches, a faint prickle, and she’s suddenly conscious of it, the crescent of white skin under her shirt. *Childhood accident *, the doctor had said. *You were chasing a stray cat, tripped over the garden hose, sliced it open on the metal spigot *. But it had been *Evan * who’d made her feel like the world was a garden hose, coiled tight and ready to snap. *Luc * had been the one to untangle her, once, before he ’d vanished.
“Can I come in?” He nods at the door, and there’s a flicker of the old hesitation in his eyes, the way he used to pause before asking for permission, even when he was sure he should have it.
“Did you forget the building rules? No solicitors, no—”
“I’m not soliciting.” He takes a step forward, and the floorboards creak. The cat—Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, who hates everyone except the guy who brings her tuna from the corner shop—flops onto the couch, tail flicking. “I need your help.”
Rory stills. *Help *. As if he hasn’t spent two years weaponizing the one thing he knows she can’t say no to: the urge to fix things, to be useful, to believe there’s a way out of the mess she’s made of her life.
“Like hell I do.” She crosses her arms, but her feet don’t move. The tea is cooling in her hands.
His jaw tightens. “You *were * the only one who ever saw me, Rory. Not the Frenchman, not the fixer, not the—” He stops, swallows . “The half-demon . The thing people pay to eliminate. But you saw… you saw *Lucien *.”
The nickname hits her like a punch. It was his mother’s, he’d told her once, before she’d learned what *half-demon * really meant. Before he’d taken her to Avaros , the realm of smoke and starlight, and shown her the scars on his father’s face—the horns, the fangs, the way the air there smelled like burnt copper . Before he’d kissed her and said, *I’m not like you. I can’t give you what you want *.
“I don’t know you anymore,” she says, but it’s a lie. She knows the way his thumb rubs the cane when he ’s nervous, the way he blinks twice before answering a question that makes him uncomfortable, the way he always orders black coffee when they eat at Silas’ bar, even though Eva swears by her cinnamon lattes.
He leans against the doorframe, the briefcase heavy in his grip. “Eva called. Said you were talking to her about… about Evan . About the way he ’d—”
“Eva has a big mouth,” Rory snaps, but her throat is suddenly dry . She takes a sip of tea, scalding, and sets it down. “You don’t get to use her as a go-between. You don’t—”
“I left because I had to,” he says, and it’s a plea, not a defense. “Avaros is cracking. The Veil between worlds is thinning, and demons are slipping through—*more * of them. My father… he ’s gathering his forces. He wants a war. And I can’t let him do that. Not if it means innocent people get caught in the crossfire.”
Rory stares at him . *Demons *. *Avaros *. She’d thought it was just a story, the way he talked about the shadows that lingered in the alleyways, the way his eyes had changed when he was angry . But Evan … Evan had *known *. He’d known about the things she couldn’t see , the threats she couldn’t feel until it was too late. *I’m not like them *, he ’d said, when she’d found the blood on his shirt, the gash on his arm that wouldn’t heal. *I can protect you *. But he ’d been a man, with human fears, human weaknesses. *Luc *… he was something else. Something older, something that moved in the spaces between the light.
“Why me?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper . “Why come here, now? Why not go to the other fixers? The ones who actually *know * what they’re doing.”
“Because you *understand *,” he says, and his hand goes to his chest, over his heart. “Because when I told you about Avaros , you didn’t flinch. You just said, *Then we’ll fix it *. You always... you always thought we could fix things.”
He moves closer, and she doesn’t step back. The cat meows, curling into a ball on the couch. The air smells like Rory’s tea, like the curry house below (Eva’s secret ingredient, a dash of cardamom), like *him *—leather, sandalwood, something sharp and metallic, like the blade in his cane. She can see the scar on his cheek, a thin white line, and she remembers the night he ’d fought off three men in an alley, the way he ’d taken a punch to the face for her, and laughed when she’d cried over it, said, *I’m indestructible, remember? The gods made me that way *.
*Indestructible *.
“Evan was right, you know ,” she says, quiet . “About me. About needing someone to protect me.”
His face flickers, pained. “You don’t need protection. You need… you need to let someone *see * you , Rory. The parts you hide behind the delivery bag and the sarcasm and the… the *fixing *.”
She laughs, a bitter, wet sound. “You left . You *left * because I needed too much. Because I wasn’t a weapon or a mission. Because I had a scar on my wrist and a father who still thinks I’m wasting my Pre-Law degree.”
“I was scared,” he says, and it’s raw, so raw she knows it’s true. “Scared that if I stayed, I’d lose myself. That I’d start choosing Avaros over you . That I’d become the thing my father is.”
“You already are,” she says, before she can stop herself.
His eyes go black, the amber vanishing. For a second, she sees it—the demon, the creature that lurks beneath the suit and the cane. But then it’s gone, replaced by pain.
“I’m not,” he says. “I’d never be.”
He takes another step, and this time, she doesn’t move. The distance between them is two feet, three at most, and she can see the way his breath comes faster, the way his hand trembles as it reaches for her. The scar on her wrist itches again, and she realizes she’s been gripping it through her shirt, the skin white with pressure.
“Did you ever… did you ever regret leaving?” she asks, and her voice cracks.
He cups her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, and it’s warm, *human *, familiar . “Every single day. Every time I saw a streetlamp flicker , I thought of the night we sat on the roof at Silas’ and you told me about your mom’s lullabies. Every time I ordered black coffee, I thought of the way you ’d laugh and say, *You’re going to give yourself a stomach ulcer, Luc *. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face, and I wonder—”
“You wonder if you made the right choice,” she says, finishing for him .
He nods, and his eyes are wet, the black flecked with amber. “I wonder if I’m still making the wrong one, by coming here. By risking… by risking *us *.”
*Us *.
It’s a word she thought she’d never hear from him again. A word that makes her chest tighten, that makes her want to reach up and kiss him , to taste the fear on his lips, to tell him that she’s still here, that she never left .
But Evan ’s face flashes in her mind—the way he ’d grabbed her arm, the way he ’d whispered, *You’ll never leave me *, the way he ’d broken her phone, her laptop, the lock on her door, until she’d felt like a bird in a cage . She can’t do that again. She can’t be *someone’s * cage.
“I can’t,” she says, pulling away from his touch.
He steps back, hurt written across his face. “Rory—”
“You can’t walk in here and say all this,” she says, her voice rising, angry now, because she’s scared, because he ’s opening a wound she thought was healed , because *he * is *worth * the risk. “You can’t just… just say you want to fix things like we can go back to before. Before Evan . Before Avaros . Before—”
“Before you let me in,” he finishes.
She stops.
Before she’d let him in, she’d been a girl who ate takeout on the floor of her university dorm, who cried into her pillow because her father had called to say he was “disappointed” in her “foolish” choice of major, who had a scar on her wrist and a heart that felt too big for her chest. Before Evan , she’d been *happy *, in a small, quiet way. But Evan had crushed that happiness , and *Luc * had been the one to rebuild it, brick by brick, until she’d felt like she could breathe again .
Now he’s here, and she’s scared. Scared that he’ll leave again. Scared that the demon in him will win. Scared that she’ll let him in, and it’ll all fall apart.
But what if it doesn’t?
What if they’re both still here, two broken people, just waiting for someone to fix them?
She takes a step toward him , and this time, he doesn’t flinch. The cat meows again, as if urging her on, and she laughs, wet and shaky . “You said you need my help,” she says. “With the demons. With Avaros . With… with whatever the hell is going on.”
He nods, hope flickering in his eyes. “I need *you *, too. Not just as a fixer. As… as Rory. The woman who stays up all night reading conspiracy theories and who burns toast every morning because she’s too busy thinking about the case files on her kitchen table.”
She smiles, a small, fragile thing. “The woman who once punched a man in the throat for calling my mom a ‘stupid Welsh accent’.”
He grins, and it’s the same grin he used to wear when he ’d found a particularly rare spell book, the one that made his eyes light up like a child on Christmas morning. “The woman who made me believe I could be human .”
“I never doubted you ,” she says, and it’s true. She never had.
He closes the distance between them, slow, careful, and this time, she doesn’t pull away. His lips meet hers , soft at first, then hungry, and she thinks, *This is it *, the way his hands cup her face, the way he groans when she tangles her fingers in his hair, the way the world narrows to the feel of him , the smell of him , the *rightness * of him .
When they pull apart, he rests his forehead against hers , his breath hot against her skin. “I’m not going to leave,” he says. “Not this time. I’ll fight for you . For us . Even if it means fighting my own father.”
She touches the scar on his cheek, the one she’d kissed a hundred times. “I’ll fight with you ,” she says. “Always.”
The bell jingles again, and they both jump. Rory checks the peephole, sees Silas leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smile on his face. “Eva’s home early,” he calls, and she hears her friend’s laughter echoing down the stairs.
Rory laughs, too, and turns back to Lucien . The flat is still cramped, still cluttered, still *hers *, but now it feels like it’s got a heartbeat, like there’s space for two people to fit, for their pasts and their futures to weave together.
He takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers , and she sees the blade in his cane, hidden, but she knows it won’t be needed— not now, not when she has him .
“Coffee?” she asks. “Eva’s still got the cinnamon lattes. Even though I tell her they’re a waste of good coffee.”
He grins. “I’ll take two.”
The cat meows, as if agreeing, and Rory thinks, *This is how it starts *, with a door opening, with a fight and a kiss and a lifetime of “what ifs” turned into “what is.”
She takes his hand, and they walk to the kitchen, toward the stove, toward the chips and the tea and the quiet promise of a future that, this time, she’s not going to let slip through her fingers.