Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2EP1EDGW1VCSZ12BBSB0KY

The knock came at half past nine, three sharp raps against the wood that sent Ptolemy scrambling off the windowsill. Aurora paused mid-bite over Eva's research notes, chopsticks hovering above a takeaway box of noodles. The cat's tail flicked as he stared at the door. She wiped her fingers on her jeans and crossed the cramped living room, stepping over stacks of books and a discarded scarf. Three deadbolts slid back with well-practiced turns. Fourth one stuck—Eva always left it half-engaged. Aurora jiggled the lock, yanked, and finally pulled the door open six inches, chain still on. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing. The dim bulb above the curry house caught the platinum of his hair, the crisp white of his shirt beneath an unbuttoned charcoal overcoat. His cane rested against his shoulder, hand dangling loose at his side. One amber eye, one black—both fixed on her with that unreadable stillness he wore like a second layer of tailoring. Aurora's stomach dropped. She didn't close the door. Didn't open it wider either. “You're a long way from Soho,” she said. “Eva's flat.” His voice carried the same Marseille rasp, the same dry amusement at the edges. “I'm not lost.” “She's not here. Gone to Edinburgh for the week. Research trip.” “I know.” The chain rattled as she shifted her weight. “Then why are you knocking?” Lucien reached into his breast pocket with slow, deliberate care—a gesture meant to reassure, not threaten. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, cream-coloured, edges crisp. Held it between two fingers. “This was slipped under my door this morning. Thought you should see it.” She didn't take it. “What is it?” “A photograph. Of you. Leaving the Golden Empress last Tuesday, eleven-nineteen at night.” He paused. “Someone's watching your routine, Rory. Taking notes.” The name hit like a low punch. He'd never called her that before. Only Eva did. Aurora unhooked the chain and let the door swing open. She stepped back, arms crossed, chin lifted. “Come in. But you're not staying long.” Lucien dipped his head in a mock bow and walked past her, close enough that she caught the wintergreen of his cologne, the faint warmth radiating off his skin. He moved through the flat with the quiet dismissal of someone used to taking in spaces at a glance—the cluttered desk, the tower of scrolls, the cat now weaving between his ankles. He didn't pet Ptolemy. He simply stepped around him. Aurora closed the door, locked all four bolts, and turned to face him. “Show me.” He held out the photograph. She took it. Glossy paper, printed on heavy stock. A shot from across the street—her in her delivery jacket, helmet tucked under her arm, the restaurant's neon sign bleeding red across her face. The date stamp in the corner read 22:19. The angle was deliberate. Whoever took it knew where she'd be. “Could be anyone,” she said, but her voice came out flat. “It's not anyone.” Lucien set his cane against Eva's desk and lowered himself onto the arm of the worn sofa, crossing one ankle over the other. “The paper's French. Watermark says Strasbourg. That's my city, Rory. Someone's sending me a message about you. Wants me to know they know.” She dropped the photo onto the nearest stack of books. “Why would you care? We haven't spoken in three months.” “We haven't spoken in three months because you decided we shouldn't.” “I decided?” A laugh escaped her—short, bitter. “You're the one who walked out of that pub without a word. Left me standing at the bar with two drinks and a train schedule.” Lucien's jaw tightened. The movement was subtle, but she caught it. He looked down at his hands, at the silver ring on his middle finger, turning it once. “I had a job. A messy one. I didn't want you near it.” “You could have said that.” “Would you have believed me?” The question hung between them, sharp as the hiss of a kettle. Aurora pressed her palm flat against the wall, felt the old wallpaper peel beneath her fingers. “You didn't give me the chance to find out.” Ptolemy jumped onto Lucien's knee. He didn't push the cat away. His fingers found the scruff of its neck, scratching absently, and for a moment the man in the charcoal suit looked almost human. Almost soft. “I'm here now,” he said. “That doesn't fix it.” “No. But it's a start.” Aurora stared at him. At the platinum hair that never fell out of place, the mismatched eyes that gave nothing away, the hand that kept moving against the cat's fur like he needed something to hold. She remembered the heat of his palm against her lower back the night they'd danced in that basement club in Camden, bodies pressed together as the bass thrummed through the floor. She remembered the way he'd whispered in French against her temple—words she didn't understand but felt in the pit of her chest. And then the silence. The cold silence of three months. “Why now?” she asked. “Why knock on this door tonight?” Lucien looked up. The amber eye caught the lamplight; the black one swallowed it. “Because the photograph arrived this morning. Because I spent the afternoon tracing the postmark and came up empty. Because when I thought about who might be in danger, the first image that hit me wasn't Eva's face.” He stood, crossing the room in three long strides, close enough that she had to tilt her chin to hold his gaze. “It was yours.” Her breath stalled. His hand came up, slow, hovering an inch from her cheek—giving her time to pull away. She didn't. “I should have called,” he said. “I should have explained. But every time I reached for my phone, I remembered the way you looked at me that night. Like you'd seen something in me you didn't want to name.” “I saw you leaving,” she whispered. “That's all I saw.” His fingers brushed her jaw, light as a question mark. “I'm not leaving now.” The flat hummed with the low drone of the fridge, the distant clatter of pans from the curry house below. Ptolemy mewed once, then hopped off the sofa and padded toward the kitchen. The moment stretched, thin as thread. “Luc.” Her voice caught on the syllable. “What are we doing?” He didn't answer with words. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, thumb pressing against the hollow behind her ear, and he leaned in until his forehead rested against hers. The length of his body blocked the light from the lamp, casting them both in shadow. “I don't know,” he breathed. “But I'm tired of pretending I don't want to find out.”