Run: 2026-09-23-01M36NNZTZPZ5RQ5VHJFTBY0N8

The door opened six inches before Rory recognised him. Lucien stood in the corridor with rain on his charcoal shoulders and one hand wrapped around the ivory head of his cane. His platinum hair had lost its careful sweep. A dark stain spread beneath his left lapel. For a beat, neither of them moved. Then Rory gripped the edge of the door. “No.” “Good evening to you, too.” “You don’t get to turn up at my flat and borrow manners.” His eyes—one amber, one black—tracked her face. They paused at the small crescent scar on her wrist, bare where her sleeve had ridden up. His mouth tightened. “Someone followed me here.” “Then you’d better keep walking.” “They followed you as well.” Rory started to close the door. Lucien’s cane slid between the door and its frame. She stared down at it. “Take that out.” “Rory, look through the stairwell window.” “I’m not taking orders from you.” “Then call it a favour to yourself.” She let the door hang open. The narrow landing behind him lay empty, lit by a weak bulb that buzzed above the stairs. Through the glass at the far end, the street showed in fragments: a slick pavement, the orange glow of the curry house sign below, a parked car with its lights off. A man stood beside it, looking up at the building. Rory’s fingers tightened around the door. The man raised his head. Even at this distance, she saw him fix on her window. Lucien drew the cane back. “Let me in.” The old instinct—to ask what he knew, to weigh every word for the hidden blade—rose alongside the urge to keep staring at him. She hated both instincts. She hated that neither had weakened with time. “One minute,” she told him. “You always were generous.” “And you always mistook my patience for permission.” She stepped aside. Lucien crossed the threshold. Rory shut the door and slid the bolt into place, then the second. The third deadbolt belonged to Eva’s flat, not hers, but Rory’s own lock turned with a scrape that sounded too loud in the narrow hall. Lucien stood close enough for her to catch the clean scent of his cologne beneath the wet wool and blood. He looked down at her, and something passed across his face before he smoothed it away. “Don’t,” Rory warned. “I haven’t spoken.” “You looked.” “I’m allowed to look.” “Not anymore.” He held her gaze. “I know.” That answer struck harder than an argument would have. She turned toward the kitchen. “Sit down before you drip on the floor.” “I’m all right.” “Blood on your shirt says otherwise.” “It’s not mine.” “Then you can still sit down.” Lucien glanced at the front door, listening. Rory followed his gaze. The old building creaked under a gust of wind. Below them, the bar’s back door banged once, then Silas’s muffled voice rose in a curse. “You brought trouble to my home,” she said. “I didn’t know they had your address.” “You know every address worth knowing in London.” “I knew yours.” His jaw shifted. “I thought it was safe.” “You thought you could keep deciding what was safe for me.” He looked at her again. No polished excuse came. That was new. Rory opened the cupboard and took down the first-aid box. The flat seemed smaller with him in it. A dish towel hung from the oven handle; two delivery bags slumped by the door; her phone sat beside a stack of unpaid bills. She had built a life out of rooms that didn’t ask questions. Lucien’s presence turned every ordinary object into evidence of the months he had missed. “Sit,” she repeated. He lowered himself onto the kitchen chair. His cane rested against his knee. The stain on his shirt had spread toward the buttons. Rory put the box on the table and pulled out gauze, antiseptic, and scissors. “Shirt off.” One dark eyebrow lifted. “Don’t make this weird.” “I’m not the one giving orders.” She snipped through the damp fabric before he could answer. A shallow cut ran along his ribs, clean but angry at the edges. Rory kept her eyes on it. “What happened?” “An argument.” “With a knife?” “With someone who disliked my conclusion.” “Did you win?” “I’m here.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the one you’re getting.” Rory pressed gauze to the cut. Lucien’s fingers closed around the edge of the table. His breath caught, quiet and controlled. “Still dramatic,” she muttered. “Still pretending you don’t notice when I’m hurt.” “I notice the mess.” Her hand held the gauze in place. The back of her knuckles brushed his skin. She pulled away first and reached for the antiseptic. Lucien watched her unscrew the cap. “You should have called.” “I didn’t think you’d answer.” “Then you know me better now.” “I knew you before.” “No. You knew the parts I let you have.” His gaze dropped to the table. “I deserved that.” “You deserved worse.” She soaked the cotton. “You told me you’d give me the truth. Then you decided I couldn’t handle it, packed up your lies, and disappeared.” “I didn’t disappear.” “You stopped answering. You sent a message through a man who called me Laila, which isn’t even my name.” His mouth tightened. “I was trying to keep you out of it.” “You were keeping me out of my own life.” “I thought—” “Don’t tell me what you thought. I lived with the results.” He didn’t interrupt. Rory pressed the cotton to the cut. He flinched, and she eased her hand despite herself. “Tell me what the man outside wants.” “He works for people who have been asking questions about you.” “Why?” “Because of me.” “That’s convenient.” “It’s also true.” She taped gauze over his ribs. The work brought her close to his chest. Beneath the ruined shirt, his skin was warm. She could count the beats in his pulse where her fingers rested. For a moment, the months between them seemed to thin—not vanish, not forgive, only thin enough for memory to push through: his palm at her waist in a quiet bar, his voice in her ear in French, his mouth stopping just short of hers because she had asked him to wait. She pulled the tape tight. He let out a breath. “Sorry,” she said, without looking up. “You’re not.” “No.” The corner of his mouth moved, almost a smile. It disappeared when a footstep creaked on the stairs below. Rory took the scissors from the table. Lucien reached for his cane. “Don’t go near the door.” “I wasn’t.” The steps stopped on the landing beneath them. A knock sounded against the building’s street entrance. Rory’s eyes met his. “Silas will handle it,” she said. “Silas shouldn’t open the door.” “Why?” “Because the man outside isn’t alone.” The knock came again, three measured strikes. From downstairs, Silas called, “You expecting anyone, Rory?” She looked at Lucien. “Not anymore.” Lucien pushed himself upright. His hand went to the cane, but he didn’t move toward the hall. “Stay here,” Rory said. “I came here to keep them away from you.” “You came here because every other door was closed.” “That too.” The bluntness left no room for a neat reply. Rory set the scissors down. Her anger hadn’t gone anywhere; it sat between them, sharp and familiar. So did the other thing, the thing she’d spent months teaching herself not to reach for. The knock sounded a third time. Silas called her name again. Rory stepped close to Lucien and took his cane from his hand. “Tell me what you left out,” she whispered. His face changed. The fixer vanished; the man beneath him had no prepared answer. “Everything,” he said. “Start with what’s downstairs.” He looked at the door, then back at her. His bare hand lifted, paused beside her wrist, and waited. Rory held his gaze. “Start talking.”