Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KC3WTX6V7CM9Z0AD0CQHK3

The third deadbolt turned with a sound like a key breaking. Aurora pulled the door open onto the wet Brick Lane landing and found Lucien Moreau standing under the flickering bulb, rain glistening in his platinum hair. His charcoal suit had darkened at the shoulders. One hand rested on the carved ivory handle of his cane. The other hung at his side, empty. For a long moment, neither spoke. "Rory." Her pulse kicked once against her ribs. She kept one hand on the doorframe, the other on the deadbolt she had just opened. "Wrong floor." "No." He inclined his head. "I know where I am." "Then you know Eva isn't here." "I didn't come for Eva." Behind her, Ptolemy made a low, unwelcoming sound from the arm of the sofa. The smell of curry drifted up from the restaurant below, mixing with the wet-wool smell of his coat. Aurora folded her arms. "Three months, Luc. Three months, and you show up on a Tuesday night like a bad omen." "Would another night have suited better?" "A phone call would have suited better." He shifted his weight. The cane tapped once against the concrete. "You wouldn't have answered." "You could have tried." "I did." He looked at her, one amber eye bright, the other black and lightless. "I dialed your number seven times since September. I never let it ring." Something sharp and hot moved through her chest. She forced it down. "Then why are you here?" "Because I'm tired of not letting it ring." He paused. "Can I come in?" "No." "Then shut the door." She didn't move. The rain fell harder behind him, a hiss against the bricks. A drift of cold air curled over the threshold and raised goosebumps along her bare arms. "You look like hell," she said. A faint smile touched his mouth. "I've missed you too." "Don't." She pointed a finger at him. "Don't you dare stand there and make this charming." "I'm not trying to be charming. I'm trying to be honest." "Since when?" The question landed between them. He flinched, a tightening at the corner of his mouth. "Since I walked away from you in this exact doorway and told myself it was for your own good." "Was it?" "No." Her throat tightened. She stepped back, one small step, and he took it as permission. He crossed the threshold, bringing the rain-scented cold with him, and closed the door himself. The latch clicked. The deadbolts stayed open. Inside, the flat felt smaller with him in it. He set his cane against the wall, but his coat still dripped onto the warped floorboards. Ptolemy jumped down from the sofa and stalked toward him, tail low. "Your cat hates me," Lucien said. "She's Eva's. And cats are excellent judges of character." "Then she must be furious with you for leaving the door open." Aurora opened her mouth, then closed it. He was watching her with those uneven eyes, and she hated how easily he saw straight through her. "Why are you really here, Luc?" He unbuttoned his coat, not taking his eyes off her. "I had a conversation with your friend Eva." The floor tilted under her feet. "You went behind my back?" "I asked her how you were. She told me to come find out myself." "Eva told you—" She shook her head. "She wouldn't." "She said I'd been a coward long enough." Aurora turned away from him and moved toward the tiny kitchen. The kettle still sat on the cold hob. She didn't switch it on. She just needed the distance, the barrier of the counter between them. "She's not wrong." "I know." She turned back. "You left, Luc. You stood in this flat and told me I would be safer if you were gone. You didn't ask me how I felt. You didn't ask what I wanted. You made a decision for both of us and then vanished." He didn't look away. "I thought I was protecting you." "From what?" "From the things that follow me." He spread his hands. "My father's world doesn't let people go. You know that." "I didn't ask to be protected. I asked you to stay." The words echoed in the small room. Ptolemy hissed—a long, low leak of air—then retreated to the bedroom. Lucien stepped toward her. "I know." "Then why didn't you?" "Because I was afraid." He spoke without wavering. "Not of them. Of what I would do to keep you." Aurora stared at him. Her pulse beat in her ears. The kitchen light carved shadows under his sharp cheekbones. His right cuff was damp, the fabric clinging to the muscle of his wrist. "That's the first honest thing you've said since you knocked." "I didn't knock." "Don't." He stepped closer, near enough now that she could see the faint line of a recent scar along his jaw. She wanted to touch it. She curled her fingers into her palms. "You're angry," he said. "I'm not angry. I'm—" She stopped. "What?" "I don't know." She laughed, brittle. "Tired. Humiliated. Relieved. Take your pick." "Relieved?" She shook her head. "You're standing in front of me. I didn't realize how much I needed to see that." Something shifted in his face. He reached out, giving her time to step away. She didn't. His fingers brushed the sleeve of her jumper, then closed around her left wrist. His thumb found the small crescent scar there—the one she'd had since she was eight. He turned her hand over. "I should have called," he said. "Yes." "I should have stayed." "Yes." "I won't ask you to forgive me." "Good." "But I need you to know I didn't leave because I stopped wanting you." Her breath caught. He was close. She could smell the rain in his hair, the faint, dark spice of his skin. Her wrist still rested in his grip, and she could feel the heat of him through her sleeve. "Luc—" "I'm not finished." His voice dropped. "I left because walking away was the only thing I knew how to do that wouldn't end with you in a grave. And I've spent three months regretting it." She didn't pull away. Her pulse jumped against his thumb. "You're still not asking." "What should I ask?" "Ask me what I want." He held her gaze. Outside, the rain continued to fall. The lights of the curry house flickered through the window. "What do you want, Rory?" She opened her mouth, but no sound came. She was twenty-five and she'd spent half a year learning to sleep alone again, and now here he was, still holding her wrist like she might disappear. "I want you to close the rest of the distance." Her voice scraped. "But I'm not sure I'll survive it." He didn't move for a long moment. Then he lifted her hand, pressed his lips to the scar at her wrist, and let out a breath that was almost a word.