Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95WYAP0CDTB5K26PDZKXXK

The heavy bolt scraped. Aurora eased the door open a crack, a sliver of cautious anticipation on her face. Her hand froze on the knob. Lucien Moreau stood framed in the dim light of Brick Lane’s perpetually grey afternoon, a stark contrast to the grimy street. His tailored charcoal suit hung without a single wrinkle, the fabric a dark matte against the pale bricks of the curry house opposite. He leaned lightly on his ivory-handled cane, a silver lion’s head gleaming at the top. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. One eye, amber, held hers; the other, a fathomless black, seemed to examine the very air between them. She pulled the door wider, a silent invitation, or perhaps just resignation. "Lucien," the name left her lips, a breath of surprise. A smile, barely there, touched the corner of his mouth. He straightened, pushing off the cane, its tip tapping softly on the worn threshold. "Aurora," he countered, his voice a low, smooth cadence she remembered all too well. "Not expecting visitors?" "Yours, specifically? Never." She stepped back, making room, though not out of welcome. His presence filled the narrow hallway, scenting the air with something expensive and faintly reminiscent of jasmine. He crossed the threshold, his gaze sweeping over the stacks of books and scrolls that already threatened to engulf Eva’s small flat. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her, a phantom echo of something past. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, wound through Lucien’s ankles, a purr rumbling from his throat. The cat, usually wary of strangers, rubbed affectionately against the foreign fabric of Lucien’s trousers. Lucien glanced down, a flash of genuine amusement in his heterochromatic eyes, before he nudged Ptolemy gently with the tip of his cane. "You’ve been busy," he remarked, the observation landing flat, offering no explanation for his abrupt appearance. His eyes found hers again, a spark in their depths. "Eva’s busy," Rory corrected, her voice tight, a defensive edge she hadn’t intended. She gripped her left wrist, thumb tracing the crescent-shaped scar, a habit she thought she had broken years ago. "I’m just… here." "So I see." He moved further into the living area, his movements fluid, unhurried, as if he owned the space. He stopped before a precarious tower of arcane texts. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of light slicing through the grimy window. "A considerable change from the flat above Silas’s." "It’s temporary. You know how Eva gets with her research." Rory’s bright blue eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Lucien? You don’t just show up to admire Eva’s interior decorating." He turned, the faint smile returning. "A simple concern for a friend. Is that so hard to believe?" "A simple concern involves a phone call. Or a text. Not showing up unannounced like some phantom." Her arms crossed, a shield against his easy charm. The intimacy between them, the shared moments and unspoken understandings, felt distant, yet intensely present in the cramped space. "Sometimes, the personal touch is required." His voice lowered, the change subtle but potent. "Especially when channels of communication have… dried up." He gestured vaguely between them with a hand that seemed to remember the curve of her jaw. Her jaw clenched instead. "Things ended, Lucien. They weren’t meant to be picked back up again at your convenience." "Did they end, Aurora? Or did you simply… disappear?" He moved closer, a deliberate three-step approach that left barely a foot between them. His head tilted slightly, inviting her to meet his gaze, to look past the confident facade. "A note on the kitchen table. A changed number. Evasion, not resolution." "After everything," she began, then stopped, a rush of old hurts threatening to surface. "What else was there to do? We saw each other clearly that night." "I thought we saw each other, yes. But perhaps not the same thing." He reached out, his hand hovering, for a bare instant, just above her arm before he let it drop, the restrained gesture almost more impactful than a touch. "London is a large city. Yet you were not hard to find." Her heart hammered, a frantic drum against her ribs. She remembered how his touch felt, how his eyes held hers, how easily he could charm and disarm. And she remembered the sting of his words, the cold distance that had eventually settled between them like a shroud. "I wasn't hiding. I just… moved on." "Did you?" His voice was a soft challenge, barely a whisper now. "You look thinner. Darker circles under your eyes. The delivery work is keeping you busy, then." He looked her over, his gaze lingering on her straight shoulder-length black hair, the slight tremor in her hands. "You've been watching me." It wasn't a question. A chill snaked down her spine, fear mixing with a strange thrill. "Observing. There’s a difference." He shrugged, a slight, elegant movement that didn't diminish his intensity. "I heard things. Rumours. That you were struggling. That you needed assistance. My assistance." "I don’t need your assistance," Rory scoffed, pulling herself up, trying to inject more defiance into her tone than she felt. "I’m perfectly capable of handling my own life." "Are you?" He let the question hang in the air, weighted with implication. "Considering the company you keep now, I am less certain. A half-starved demon hunter and a reclusive witch who deals in whispers and old blood." Rory took a step forward, closing the remaining distance, invading his personal space with a rush of indignation. "They’re my friends, Lucien. They offered support when you were… otherwise occupied." "Occupied?" His amber eye flashed. "Or simply giving you space. As you seemed so desperately to want." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur that raised the tiny hairs on her arms. "I didn't think you wanted to hear from me after the way you ran." "I didn't run," she practically clipped the words, her voice low and furious. "I removed myself from a situation that was clearly going nowhere. And hurting us both." His gaze softened, the fierce intensity replaced by something akin to regret. "Hurting *me* as well, Aurora. Never doubt that." He reached out again, this time his cool fingers brushing her cheek, a fleeting, almost imperceptible touch that ignited a fire beneath her skin. "There were things left unsaid between us. Important things." "Too late for them now," she breathed, her voice catching. Her blue eyes fixed on his, searching for an answer she wasn't sure she wanted. "Perhaps not," Lucien murmured, his thumb brushing over her skin, lingering, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the coldness of their parting. His gaze dropped to her lips, making the air crackle between them. "I believe in second chances. Especially when the first was cut so tragically short."