Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GMT3S2MPKT80ZA6P4T9HB

The first deadbolt scraped back, then the second, then the third. Chains rattled. A pause settled behind the door, long enough to feel deliberate. When the door cracked open, warm curry spice rolled into the corridor with a stripe of yellow light. Ptolemy shot through the gap first, striped body low, tail up like a flag. He skidded around Aurora’s boots, sniffed the damp hem of her jeans, then pressed against her shin as if he’d known her all his life. Aurora looked down at the cat, then up. Eva filled the doorway in an oversized grey jumper and black leggings, hair twisted up in a knot that had half-fallen apart. A pencil sat above one ear. Ink marked the side of her hand. Her eyes landed on Aurora’s face and held there, no blink, no welcome. For one second the noise from Brick Lane dropped away. No shouts from the pavement. No rumble from the kitchen below. No hiss of rain against the windows. Just Eva’s hand gripping the edge of the door hard enough to whiten the knuckles. Aurora lifted the brown paper parcel in her hand. “Your order.” Eva’s gaze flicked to the Golden Empress stamp, then back to Aurora. “You.” “Me.” “That’s not funny.” “I wasn’t aiming for funny.” Eva opened the door another inch, enough to make clear she hadn’t decided whether to slam it or let her in. “Yu-Fei sent you?” Aurora shifted the parcel to her other hand. Her scooter helmet hung from two fingers, rainwater still dripping from the rim onto the landing. “He sent whoever didn’t tell him no fast enough.” “That sounds like you.” “That sounds like rent.” Eva’s mouth moved, close to a smile and nowhere near one. “You still do that. Turn up with a line ready.” Aurora gave a small shrug. “You still keep people on the doorstep.” Ptolemy wound around Eva’s ankles and mewed. Eva looked down at him, then stepped back at last. “Come in before Mrs Hossain downstairs decides I’m running a brothel.” Aurora ducked inside. The flat felt even smaller than she remembered. Books rose in teetering columns from the floorboards. Open notebooks covered the sofa. Scroll tubes leaned in a ceramic umbrella stand by the wall. Someone had pinned maps, clippings, and pages of cramped handwriting across a corkboard above the little dining table. The windows fogged from the heat. Curry and old paper and candle wax sat thick in the air. Eva shut the door with all three deadbolts, one after another, each click loud in the cramped hall. Aurora stood by the coat rack, parcel still in hand, helmet under her arm, a puddle spreading beneath her boots. Eva noticed it straight away. “Take those off before you drown the floor.” Aurora bent and tugged off her boots. “Hello to you too.” “You came to my door after eight months. I’m working up to hello.” Aurora set the parcel on a clear patch of table and straightened. “It wasn’t planned.” “No, I gathered that from your face.” Eva crossed the room and snatched a takeaway menu from beneath a stack of papers. “I didn’t order from Golden Empress.” Aurora leaned over the parcel. “Flat 3B. Chicken dumplings, chilli aubergine, special fried rice.” “I’m 3A.” Aurora closed her eyes for a beat, then looked at the front of the bag again. Rain had smeared the bottom half of the ink. “Brilliant.” Eva folded her arms. “You climbed three flights in the rain to deliver someone else’s dinner.” “And found your charming hospitality at no extra charge.” The line landed. Eva looked away first. From the room below came the thud of a bass speaker and a burst of laughter from the curry house staff. Somewhere in the kitchen a pipe clanged. Ptolemy hopped onto the table, pushed his nose at the paper bag, and received a quick nudge from Eva. “Don’t. It’s not yours.” Aurora rubbed a thumb over the crescent scar on her left wrist, a habit she hadn’t managed to break. “I can take it upstairs.” Eva watched the movement of her hand. Her face changed, not softening, exactly, but losing some of its edge. “No one’s in 3B. He moved out last week.” “Great.” Aurora reached for the parcel again. Eva beat her to it. “You’ve carried it up here. Sit down. We’ll eat his mistake.” Aurora stared. “We?” “Unless you’ve got another wrong door to haunt.” Rain ticked against the window. Aurora looked at the sofa, which held three books, two rolled-up charts, and a cardigan. Eva followed her gaze, swept the lot aside in one armful, and dropped them onto a chair. “There. Don’t act precious. You’ve slept on worse.” The words hung between them the second they were out. Aurora set the helmet on the floor with care. “That was low.” Eva put the parcel on the table. “You left me plenty to work with.” Aurora didn’t sit. “I didn’t come here for a row.” “You came here by accident.” “Even better.” Eva let out a breath through her nose. “Fine. Don’t row. Stand there looking like a wet ghost while I find plates.” She turned into the kitchenette alcove. Cupboards opened and shut. Ceramic knocked against ceramic. Aurora stood where she was and took in the details she hadn’t let herself picture. The yellow mug with a chipped handle still sat by the sink. The framed postcard of Naples still leaned against the windowsill. On the corkboard, pinned between a newspaper clipping and a hand-drawn sigil, sat a photograph of the two of them on Brighton pier, windswept and squinting into sun. Aurora looked away from it so quickly her neck tightened. Eva returned with two cracked bowls and chopsticks stolen from a dozen takeaways. She stopped when she caught Aurora staring at the board. “I forgot that was still up.” “You forgot?” “I had other things on my mind.” Aurora gave a short laugh. “Clearly.” Eva set the bowls down harder than she meant to. “Don’t start.” “You started.” “No. You vanished.” Aurora’s jaw worked. “I texted.” “You sent three lines at two in the morning.” “I sent what I could.” “You sent cowardice in complete sentences.” Silence hit hard and flat. Ptolemy jumped onto the sofa and tucked himself into the cardigan Eva had thrown aside. Down on the street, a siren passed, thin and distant. Aurora pulled out a chair and sat at last. “You want honesty?” Eva peeled back the parcel lid. Steam rose between them, fragrant with chilli and sesame. “That would make a change.” Aurora leaned her forearms on the table. “I left because if I’d stayed, I’d have dragged you into it.” Eva scooped rice into one bowl without looking at her. “Into what?” “You know what.” “Humour me.” Aurora laughed once, no humour in it at all. “You always did like a courtroom style cross-examination.” Eva pushed a bowl toward her. “Eat.” Aurora took the chopsticks but didn’t touch the food. “Evan found me.” The words made Eva freeze. Not a dramatic flinch. Worse. Everything in her stopped. “When?” “Back in February.” Eva looked up slowly. “You told me he’d lost your address.” “He had.” “You told me he didn’t know anyone in London.” “He didn’t.” Eva set her chopsticks down. “Then how?” Aurora traced the rim of the bowl with one finger. “Through Cardiff. Through my father. He turned up outside the restaurant first. Then outside the bar. He didn’t come near me after that, but near enough.” Eva’s face drained. “Near enough for what?” “Near enough to remind me he could.” “And your brilliant plan was to cut me off.” Aurora met her eyes. “My brilliant plan was to stop him using you to get to me.” Eva’s laugh broke sharp. “You don’t get to decide that for me.” “I already did.” “Yes, I noticed.” Aurora looked down at the table. “Lucien helped.” The name changed the air. Eva leaned back in her chair. “Of course he did.” Aurora’s head came up. “Don’t.” “What? Not react to finding out the elegant bastard stepped into the gap you left?” “He got me safe.” “And that excused what, exactly?” Aurora’s fingers tightened around the chopsticks. “This isn’t about him.” Eva held her stare. “You disappeared. Then I heard from half the city before I heard from you. A woman from the bar told me you’d moved out. Silas told me not to ask questions. Two weeks later I saw you in Soho getting into a black car with Lucien Moreau.” “It wasn’t like that.” Eva’s mouth twisted. “No? What was it like?” “Ugly. Exhausting. Necessary.” “And did necessary kiss you on the pavement?” Aurora went still. The silence answered for her. Eva laughed again, this time softer, a sound scraped raw. “There it is.” Aurora spoke into that silence with care. “I didn’t owe you an account of my life.” “No. You owed me the truth.” Aurora’s chin lifted. “After what happened here? After that night?” Eva looked at the window. Rain dragged crooked trails through the condensation. “I knew we’d get to that.” “You asked.” “I didn’t ask you to use it as a shield.” Aurora set the chopsticks down. “You kissed me and told me not to make it mean anything.” Eva flinched now. Small. Real. Aurora pressed on before she could stop herself. “You kissed me in this flat. Right there by the sink. Then you stood there and talked about complications and timing and not ruining the friendship as if I’d cornered you.” Eva folded her arms tight across her chest. “You were leaving for Cardiff in the morning.” “For one weekend.” “You had a violent ex sniffing around your life.” “I didn’t know he was back then.” “You had enough bruises from him still sitting in your bones. I wasn’t going to take what you offered and call it romance.” Aurora leaned back, stunned into stillness. “What I offered?” Eva stared at her, colour high in her cheeks now. “You came here shaking. You’d had a nightmare. You climbed into my bed because you couldn’t stand to be alone. I held your face. You kissed me. I kissed you back. Then I watched the look on you when you came back to yourself.” Aurora opened her mouth. Closed it. Eva’s voice dropped. “You looked terrified.” Aurora swallowed. “I looked exposed.” “You looked like you’d hand me your throat and hate me for taking it.” The room seemed to shrink around them. Steam no longer rose from the food. It sat cooling, untouched. Aurora rubbed the heel of her palm against her sternum as if something there had gone tight. “You could have said any of that.” Eva barked a laugh. “Please. You were out the door before eight. Then you sent me a text that read like a note left after a burglary.” Aurora almost smiled despite herself. “That bad?” Eva reached into the pocket of her jumper, pulled out a battered mobile, and flicked the screen awake. “I kept it.” She scrolled, then pushed the phone across the table. Aurora read her own words in the pale wash of light. I can’t untangle this right now. I’m sorry. You matter too much for me to make a mess of it. Aurora shut her eyes. “Christ.” “Exactly.” “That sounds unbearable.” “It did at six in the morning.” Aurora pushed the phone back. “I meant it.” Eva looked at her, expression unreadable. “Which part?” “All of it.” Eva picked up her chopsticks and turned a dumpling over in the bowl, splitting the skin. “You had a filthy habit of meaning things from a safe distance.” Aurora watched her hands. Ink smudged on two fingers. A tiny scar cut across one knuckle. She remembered biting back a smile when Eva burned toast, swearing at the grill in three languages none of them fluent. She remembered nights on this sofa under piles of books, knees touching, conversations that ran until dawn. She remembered wanting and not naming it because naming things made them break. She lifted her own bowl at last and took a bite. The rice had gone lukewarm. The chilli still hit. “Still order too much spice.” “I didn’t order this.” “You know what I mean.” Eva ate, chewed, swallowed. “You still deflect when cornered.” Aurora pointed at her with the chopsticks. “You invited me in to eat stolen dumplings. That’s not exactly legal procedure.” A smile almost happened. This time Eva didn’t kill it fast enough. “There she is,” Aurora murmured. Eva’s eyes sharpened. “Don’t get comfortable.” “Too late. Your cat likes me.” As if on cue, Ptolemy jumped from the sofa to Aurora’s lap without warning. She caught him against her ribs, bowl tipping, rice nearly sliding onto her jeans. “Oh, traitor.” Eva snorted. The sound cracked open the room. Aurora looked up, startled by how much she’d missed that sound. Eva saw it. Her smile faded into something more careful. “Don’t.” “What?” “That face.” Aurora stroked Ptolemy between the ears. “You’re going to need to be more specific.” “The one that makes me forget why I’m angry.” Aurora held her gaze. “Does it work?” Eva looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes. “Less than it used to.” “That’s still not no.” Eva set her bowl down. “You arrived with takeaway and rain in your hair. Don’t read poetry into it.” “I’m not. I’m reading your pupils.” A flush rose under Eva’s skin. “You always were insufferable once you got the upper hand.” Aurora’s voice softened. “I never had the upper hand with you.” That landed heavier than the teasing had. Eva’s fingers, resting on the table, curled inward. “You could have called,” she said. “I know.” “You could have let me choose whether I wanted in.” “I know.” “You could have trusted me.” Aurora looked at the scar on her wrist, pale against skin gone cold from the rain, then folded her hand closed. “I trusted you too much. That was the problem.” Eva frowned. “That made no sense.” “It made all the sense in the world.” Aurora breathed in, held it, let it out slow. “You were the only person in London I couldn’t stand to see dragged through my mess. Everyone else I could justify. Not you.” Eva’s expression shifted again, hurt and anger giving ground to something harder to defend against. “That wasn’t your call.” “No.” “Then stop making it.” Aurora looked at her for a long moment. “He’s gone.” Eva didn’t blink. “Gone where?” “Out of my life. Properly.” “Because of Lucien?” “Because of me. Lucien opened a few doors. I walked through them.” Eva studied her face as if she expected to find the missing pages there. “And now?” Aurora spread one hand over the table, palm up. “Now I’m delivering the wrong dinner to the wrong flat.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the one I’ve got.” Eva glanced at her hand and did not take it. “You still looked over your shoulder on the landing.” Aurora curled her fingers back in. “Habit.” “Don’t lie to me when I can see your pulse jumping.” Aurora gave a short, helpless laugh. “You’re infuriating.” “You came here.” “By accident.” “And stayed on purpose.” Aurora held her eyes. “Yes.” The word sat between them, clean and plain. Below, someone in the curry house shouted for more naan. A pan clattered. Ptolemy kneaded Aurora’s thigh with slow, possessive paws. The radiator hissed. Eva stood, crossed to the window, and wiped a circle in the fogged glass with the heel of her hand. Neon from Brick Lane painted her profile pink and blue. She looked out for a moment, then turned back. “You cut your hair.” Aurora touched the damp ends brushing her jaw. “A bit.” “It suits you.” “You hate it.” Eva leaned against the sill. “If I hated it, I’d say so.” Aurora smiled despite herself. “There she is again.” Eva tipped her head. “You’re soaked through.” “I noticed.” “You’ll catch cold.” “I’ll survive.” Eva pushed off the windowsill and crossed to the bedroom nook partitioned by a curtain. She disappeared behind it and came back with a towel, worn thin and smelling faintly of lavender detergent. She held it out across the space between them. Aurora looked at the towel, then at Eva. “That looked almost kind.” “Don’t spread rumours.” Aurora took it. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them pulled away fast enough. The contact was brief. It still struck like a match. Eva’s eyes dropped to Aurora’s mouth again. Aurora saw the moment Eva realised she’d done it and hated being caught. Eva stepped back at once. “Dry your hair. You’re dripping on my notes.” Aurora pressed the towel to the back of her neck. “Those notes survived coffee, wax, and what looked like goat blood last time I was here.” “It wasn’t goat.” Aurora paused. “Comforting.” Eva took her bowl and sat on the sofa this time, one leg tucked beneath her. “Eat before it goes rubbery.” Aurora remained at the table a second longer, towel in her hands, watching Eva as if movement might break something fragile and badly mended. Then she picked up her bowl again and ate.