AI The chain clinks loud enough to make Ptolemy’s ears twitch from where he’s curled atop a stack of waterstained grimoires by the radiator. Rory twists the final deadbolt, yanking the door open two fingers’ width, her free hand tightening around the chipped ceramic mug of hot cocoa she’d poured ten minutes prior. She doesn’t bother with a greeting—three locks mean only people who know the routine, or people willing to pick locks, make it this far.
The face on the other side stops her mid-breath. Slicked-back platinum blond hair, tailored charcoal suit stretched over broad shoulders, ivory cane propped against the scuffed leather boot on his right foot. One eye amber, one black, pinning her in place before she can slam the door shut.
Rory’s jaw tightens. She yanks harder, but the ivory tip of his cane jams between the frame and the wood, stopping the door mid-swing. Hot cocoa sloshes over the rim, burning a hot stripe down her wrist. She yelps, fumbling to set the mug down on the doormat before it shatters. It skitters, tips over, spilling sweet milky liquid across the brick pavers outside.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
She snaps the words, sharper than she means them to be, rough around the edges. She tugs her hoodie sleeve down over her left wrist, covering the faint crescent scar there, even though she knows he spotted it.
Lucien shifts his weight, the cane tapping the scuffed linoleum of Eva’s entryway once. His accent is thick, Marseille-laced, just like the first time she met him in a dim Soho bar six months prior.
“I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“That’s the point.” She tries to nudge the cane away with her shoulder, but he doesn’t move. The scent of sandalwood and tobacco wraps around her, the same cologne she’d buried under a pile of unused delivery bags after she left his apartment that night. She’d thought he was just a handsome stranger, a regular buying rounds for the bar regulars, until he’d leaned across the table, tapped his cane twice, and the thin steel blade slid out from the handle, glinting in the neon bar light. He’d told her he fixed things for people who didn’t want to go to the police. Things that lived in the cracks of London. She’d run out before he finished his sentence, but not before she kissed him, hard, the taste of rum and mint on his tongue, and then spent three days lying to herself that she’d never seen him again.
Ptolemy meows, jumping off the stack of grimoires and circling Lucien’s ankles. His tail winds around his calf, and he tilts his head up, purring loud enough that Rory blinks. She’s never seen the tabby so friendly with a stranger.
“Eva asked me to stop by.” Lucien’s eyes flick to the sound of Ptolemy’s purring, and a faint, almost amused lilt tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Left a note under my door this morning, asking for help translating a Coptic scroll about regional ley lines.”
Rory’s jaw loosens, just a little. She forgot Eva had been working on that project, had spent the last week sprawled across Eva’s couch, flipping through old university textbooks to help her sort through the research. She’d meant to mention that she’d reached out to a supernatural contact, but she’d never meant to lead Lucien here.
The front door creaks further open, and Eva steps into the entryway, holding a stack of yellowed parchment and a half-eaten scone topped with clotted cream. Her curly auburn hair is stuck up in a messy bun, and there’s ink smudged across her cheek. She stops when she sees Lucien, then gestures to the living room.
“Oh, there you are. I meant to text Rory this morning, but I got wrapped up in cross-referencing the scroll’s dating and lost track of time. Rory, this is a happy accident. Lucien’s exactly who I need to help me with this.”
Rory doesn’t move. She’s still staring at Lucien, at the way his suit jacket fits over his shoulders, the way his amber eye crinkles at the corner when he looks at Ptolemy, who’s now curled at his feet. She’d spent months telling herself she didn’t care about him, that the burn of his secrets was worse than the pull of his smile. But standing here, smelling his cologne, hearing his voice, all of it comes rushing back.
“I didn’t know you two knew each other.” Eva’s brow furrows as she picks up a stray scroll and flips it over. “You didn’t mention him when you were ranting about your delivery job last night.”
Rory’s face heats up. She’d spent last night ranting about a customer who’d left a zero-star review because her fried rice had been “too soggy,” not about the half-demon fixer she’d hooked up with and then ghosted. “We… met once.”
“Once was enough to stick in her mind.” Lucien pushes off the doorframe, moving further into the flat, his cane tapping lightly against the hardwood floors. He walks past the stack of philosophy books on the side table, pausing to glance at a framed photo of Eva and Rory at Cardiff University, grinning with their arms slung around each other. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I did for a living that night. I didn’t want to scare you off.”
Rory scoffs, pulling her hoodie sleeve up again, exposing the crescent scar. “You didn’t tell me you were half-demon either. That’s a pretty big thing to leave out when you’re buying someone drinks.”
Lucien’s eyes flick to her wrist, and his expression softens. “I know. I was an idiot. I thought if I kept you in the dark, you’d stay. I didn’t realize you’d run the other way.”
“You should have left me alone.” Her voice breaks, just a little, and she turns away, sitting down on the threadbare couch across from the armchair where Eva usually sits. The couch is covered in a patchwork quilt stitched together from old band tees, and she can feel the familiar scratch of fabric against her jeans.
Eva pauses, glancing between the two of them, then grabs her scone and takes a bite, nodding toward the door. “I’m taking Ptolemy downstairs to the curry house for extra rice. You two have some talking to do. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Before Rory can argue, Eva slips on her scuffed leather boots, grabs her canvas bag, and slips out, closing the door softly behind her. The only sound is Ptolemy’s purring, and the distant clatter of dishes from the curry house below.
Lucien sits down in the armchair, setting his cane down beside him. He reaches into his suit inner pocket and pulls out a folded scrap of paper, sliding it across the coffee table to her. It’s a crumpled Golden Empress delivery receipt, the same one she’d stuffed in her pocket after finishing an 8.9-mile run to Shoreditch last week. She’d lost it two days later, figured it had gotten tossed with her stack of unused delivery bags.
“I found this in the bar I was at that night.” He runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, pushing a strand away from his forehead. “I’ve been carrying it around since then. I kept hoping I’d run into you again.”
Rory stares at the receipt, her fingers hovering over it for a second before she picks it up. The ink is smudged, but she can see her handwriting scrawled in the corner: ROR, 10/14, 8.9 miles. She’d written that after finishing her delivery run, just to keep track of her miles for her paycheck.
“You tracked me down?”
“Eva’s the one who gave me your address.” He leans forward, his amber and black eyes locked on hers. “I didn’t know you lived above Silas’ bar, that you delivered for Golden Empress. I didn’t know anything about you after that night, except that you loved chamomile tea and you hide your left wrist when you’re nervous.”
She stares at him, her throat tight. She’d never told anyone that she hides her scar when she’s nervous, not even Eva. The scar is from the time she fell off her bike at seven, chasing a stray tabby, but she’d always hated it, thought it made her look weak. She’d never expected him to notice.
“I was scared.” She whispers the words, like saying them out loud will make them real. “After Evan, I couldn’t let anyone get close to me again. Not even you.”
Lucien’s face falls, just a little. “I know. I didn’t mean to add to your mess. But I can’t stop thinking about you. Every time I see a mug of hot cocoa, every time I walk past that Soho bar, I think of you.”
He reaches across the coffee table, and for a second, she tenses, expecting him to pull away. But he just grabs her hand that’s still holding the takeout receipt, his fingers calloused from holding his cane, warm against hers. Her left wrist is exposed, and he doesn’t look away from the scar, just runs his thumb lightly over it, gentle like he’s handling a fragile thing.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” His voice is low, steady. “I know I messed up before. I’ll tell you everything, if you’ll let me. I’ll answer every question you have, about who I am, about what I do. I just don’t want to lose you again.”
Rory’s bright blue eyes fill with tears, and she blinks them back, laughing quietly as a single tear slips down her cheek. “You’re an idiot.”
Lucien smiles, and this time, it’s a real smile, not the tight, professional one he wears when he’s working. “I know. But I’m your idiot.”