AI The door swings open before Aurora can second-guess herself, and she finds herself standing in the narrow hallway of Eva’s flat, clutching a paper bag from the Golden Empress that’s already growing cold. The scent of jasmine incense and old parchment wraps around her like a curtain.
“Rory.”
The name slips from his mouth like it never left, smooth and familiar despite everything. Lucien Moreau leans against the frame in that impeccably tailored charcoal suit, one hand resting casually on the ivory handle of his cane. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—take in her face with a precision that makes her pulse stutter.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, though her voice sounds smaller than she intends.
He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between them in three strides. Up close, he smells like sandalwood and something darker, something that makes her think of midnight streets and whispered secrets. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Aurora’s fingers tighten around the paper bag. She’d come to return the scarf he’d left at the bar last week, the night they’d argued about things that still felt raw between them. But seeing him now, standing in Eva’s hallway with that infuriatingly calm expression, makes her question every reason she’d concocted for showing up.
“Your scarf,” she says, lifting the bag slightly . “You dropped it.”
“At Silas’s?”
“Yes.”
He nods, but his eyes don’t leave hers. “And you brought it back.”
“I work deliveries now,” she says, surprised by her own defensiveness. “I pass by regularly.”
“Convenient.”
The word hangs between them, charged with something neither of them wants to name. Aurora remembers the way his mouth had felt against her neck that last night, the rough edge of his stubble against her skin, the way he’d whispered promises in French that she’d pretended not to understand.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.
“I’ve been busy.”
“With deliveries and flat-sitting for Eva?”
She flinches at the accuracy. “Are you following me?”
“No.” He steps closer, and she can feel the heat radiating from him even through the chill of the hallway. “I was in the area. Thought I might find you here.”
The lie is so obvious it might as well be written across his face in neon letters. Aurora crosses her arms, feeling the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist itch with the dampness of her skin. “You always lie so well, Luc.”
His smile is dangerous. “And you always see right through me.”
They stand like that for a moment, breathing the same air, the space between them humming with everything they’ve left unsaid. Aurora remembers the night she’d walked out of his apartment three months ago, the way his hands had gripped her shoulders when she tried to leave, the bitter taste of betrayal when she realized he’d known about her ex Evan’s threats but hadn’t told her.
“I didn’t know he was dangerous,” he’d said, but she’d heard the hesitation underneath, the careful way he’d chosen his words.
“You knew he was trouble,” she’d replied, and walked out into the London rain.
Now, standing in this cramped hallway above a curry house, with Ptolemy the tabby cat yowling somewhere behind them, Aurora wonders if she’d been wrong. If she’d let her fear make her cruel.
“Your friend’s cat is very vocal,” Lucien observes, glancing toward the bedroom where the sound is coming from.
“Ptolemy doesn’t like strangers.”
“Neither do I, apparently.”
Aurora’s laugh comes out sharper than she intends. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know that?”
“I’m not trying to be.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small leather wallet. “I thought… perhaps we could talk. Properly.”
She studies his face, searching for deception, and finds only exhaustion. The kind that settles into bone and doesn’t leave even when sleep comes. “What do you want, Luc?”
His fingers tighten around the wallet. “I want to apologize.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. Not because she doesn’t believe him, but because she does. She remembers the way he’d looked the night she left, the mixture of frustration and something softer that had flickered across his features when she’d slammed his door behind her.
“Go on, then,” she says, crossing her arms more tightly .
He takes a step back, as if giving her space, and for a moment she thinks he might leave . But then he steps forward again, slower this time, and she can see the careful calculation in his amber eye.
“I knew about Evan,” he says quietly .
Her breath catches. “You did.”
“I knew he’d been following you. Knew he’d shown up at the restaurant, at your flat. But I didn’t tell you because—”
“Because what?” The word escapes before she can stop it. “Because you thought you were protecting me?”
“Because I was angry.” The admission is so raw it makes her chest tighten. “Angry that you’d let him back into your life after everything. Angry that you trusted him when you wouldn’t trust me.”
Aurora feels the blood rushing to her cheeks. “That’s not—”
“It is.” He holds up his hands, palms open. “I should have told you. Should have warned you. But I let my own pride get in the way, and you paid the price.”
She wants to be angry with him. Wants to lash out, to tell him he had no right to make this about him when she’d been the one sleeping with a loaded gun under her pillow, checking the locks three times before bed. But looking at him now, really looking, she sees the weight he’s carrying, the way his shoulders hunch slightly as if trying to make himself smaller .
“You didn’t protect me,” she says finally. “You just… disappeared.”
“I thought that was what you wanted.”
“It wasn’t.”
The honesty in his voice cracks something open in her chest. Aurora looks away, suddenly self-conscious of the way her uniform clings to her frame, the way her hair has escaped its ponytail and frames her face in messy strands.
“What do you want from me, Luc?” she asks.
His gaze follows her eyes to her hair, then back to her face. “I want to try again.”
The silence stretches between them, filled only by Ptolemy’s increasingly loud complaints and the distant hum of Brick Lane traffic. Aurora’s rational mind catalogues all the reasons why this is a terrible idea—his secrets, his lies, the way his world orbits around things she can’t even name. But her heart, stubborn and reckless, beats a different rhythm entirely.
“Why now?” she whispers.
“Because I realized something.” He steps closer again, until his breath ghosts over her cheek. “You’re the only person who’s ever seen past the masks. The only one who calls me out when I’m lying.”
“And?”
“And I can’t keep pretending I don’t need you.”
Aurora’s knees suddenly feel weak. She grips the doorframe for support, watching his lips curve into that smile that used to make her knees buckle. “You always were melodramatic.”
“Always.”
“But you came back.”
“I always do.”
She closes her eyes, remembering the first time he’d touched her, the way his cane had tapped against her hip in that coffee shop near Covent Garden, the way he’d smelled like rain and possibility . Remembering the way he’d held her the night before she left, his arms wrapped tight around her as if he could will her to stay.
When she opens her eyes again, he’s still there, waiting, and something in her chest loosens.
“Come inside,” she says.
He doesn’t move. “You don’t have to—”
“I said come inside.” Her voice is firmer than she feels. “We can talk about this properly. But I’m not doing it in a hallway.”
Lucien’s smile widens, genuine this time, and he steps past her into the flat. Aurora shuts the door behind him, and for the first time in months, the weight of her loneliness settles heavily in her chest.
“Ptolemy,” she calls softly , “it’s okay. It’s just Luc.”
The cat’s yowling subsides into curious mews, and soon the tabby is weaving between their legs, purring loudly enough to drown out the rest of the world.
Lucien crouches down, scratching behind the cat’s ears with surprising gentleness. “Still doesn’t like me.”
“He’s been missing you.”
They both look down at the cat, and for a moment the tension between them dissolves into something softer, something that might have been love if they weren’t both too stubborn to admit it.
“So,” Lucien says, standing and brushing cat hair from his trousers. “Where do we start?”
Aurora walks past him toward the tiny kitchenette, her movements deliberate. She sets the paper bag on the counter, opens it, and pulls out the scarf—a deep burgundy wool that had been his favorite.
“You dropped this,” she says, holding it out to him.
He takes it, his fingers brushing hers, and neither of them pulls away immediately. The contact sends a jolt through both of them, familiar and electric all at once.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher . “For bringing it back.”
“You’re welcome.”
They stand there, inches apart, surrounded by books and scrolls and the quiet chaos of someone else’s life, while outside the city pulses with its endless rhythm. Aurora can feel his gaze on her face, can sense the careful way he’s measuring each moment, each breath.
“You look tired,” he says finally.
“You look… dangerous.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
The admission hangs in the air between them, heavy with implication . Aurora remembers the nights she’d woken to find him standing in her doorway, sent to warn her about threats she didn’t know existed. Remembers the way his eyes had glowed faintly amber in the dark, the way his strength had been supernatural when he’d pulled her from harm’s way one too many times.
“Are you here on business?” she asks.
“Always.” He picks up the scarf again, tucking it carefully into his jacket. “But tonight, I’m here for something else.”
“What’s that?”
His hand finds hers, fingers intertwining with deliberate gentleness. “A second chance.”
Aurora’s heart hammers against her ribs. She’s wanted this, dreamed about this moment when he’d finally admit what they both knew—that they belonged together, despite the secrets and the lies and the dangerous edges that made their love feel like walking on broken glass.
But wanting something and being ready for it are two very different things.
“Luc,” she says, her voice barely audible . “I was scared.”
“I know.”
“Of you. Of what you are. Of what we could be.”
“And now?”
Now, she thinks. Now she’s still scared, but maybe not of him. Maybe of herself, of the way her pulse quickens when he’s near, of the way her body remembers the shape of his touch even after months apart.
“Now,” she says slowly , “I think I’m ready to stop being afraid.”
His thumb brushes over her knuckles, and she feels the subtle shift in his expression—the moment when his carefully controlled facade cracks just enough to reveal the hope underneath.
“Then let’s start over,” he says. “Slowly. Carefully. However you need.”
Outside, the city continues its eternal dance of light and shadow, but inside this cramped flat above a curry house, two people who’ve spent too long pretending they don’t need each other finally allow themselves to lean into the inevitable.
The door remains closed behind them, and for the first time in a long time, Aurora doesn’t feel alone.