Run: 2026-09-23-01M36NTS96QDKMMZR320M1G2G2

The door opened on Lucien Moreau, rain darkening the shoulders of his charcoal coat. Rory kept one hand on the latch. Behind her, Ptolemy wound between her ankles, tail raised like a question mark. Three deadbolts stood thrown back from the frame. “You’ve got the wrong flat,” she said. Lucien’s amber eye held hers; the black one seemed to catch the dim hall light and keep it. His gaze dropped to her hand on the door, to the pale crescent scar on her wrist. “I don’t think I do.” “You could have checked before you came up.” “I did.” “That wasn’t an invitation.” “No.” He looked past her, into the cramped flat. Books covered the sofa, scrolls crowded the narrow table, and research notes had colonised the floor. “May I come in?” Rory let the silence stretch. Ptolemy rubbed against her shin. “Give me one reason.” “I brought the book you asked me to find.” “I didn’t ask you for anything.” “You asked Eva.” Rory’s fingers tightened on the latch. “Eva told you?” “She didn’t. I heard about it through other means.” “How very reassuring.” Lucien lifted a small, leather-bound volume from beneath his coat. A bead of rain ran from its cover to his cuff. “Is that the reason?” Rory asked. “It’s one of them.” “Then you can leave it on the step.” “I could.” He held it out. “But I’d rather not.” She looked at the book, then at him. The last time they’d stood this close, his hand had rested against her jaw, his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, and she had let herself lean in. The kiss had been brief. The silence after it had lasted six weeks. “You always did have trouble taking no for an answer.” “I remember you telling me that.” “Do you remember what came after?” His jaw shifted. “Yes.” “Good. Then we’re both caught up.” She reached for the book. Lucien kept hold of it for a fraction of a second too long, their fingers touching along the spine. Heat moved through her hand, unwelcome and familiar. Rory pulled the volume free. “Thank you. Good night.” She began to close the door. “Rory.” Her name stopped the door a handspan from the frame. She hated that it worked. “What?” “I came to apologise.” “You could have sent a note.” “I didn’t trust a note to carry what I meant.” “Then perhaps you should have learnt to mean things out loud before now.” Lucien lowered his gaze. The brass tip of his cane rested on the landing’s worn boards. “You’re right.” She’d expected an argument. His agreement left her with nothing to push against. Ptolemy slipped into the hall and sniffed at Lucien’s polished shoe. The cat sneezed, then backed away as if the shoe had offended him. “Even the cat’s unimpressed,” Rory told Lucien. “I’ve faced worse.” “Not from Ptolemy.” Lucien’s mouth twitched. For half a beat, he looked like the man who used to wait outside the restaurant after her deliveries, hands clasped around a paper cup of tea he’d never admit he’d bought for her. Then the expression faded. “May I come in for five minutes?” he asked. “You can count them.” Rory glanced at the stairs behind him. “If you were followed, you’ve brought trouble to Eva’s door.” “I wasn’t followed.” “That’s not the same as being sure.” “No, it isn’t.” He glanced toward the narrow staircase. “I checked the street and the rear entrance. There’s no one there.” “You know the rear entrance?” “I’ve been here before.” “Not with my permission.” “No.” She stared at him, searching his face for the little signs he used when he dressed a lie as a courtesy. A flex of his fingers. A pause he filled with charm. Nothing. That didn’t mean he told the truth. It meant he’d got better at standing still. “Five minutes,” she said. “If you touch anything, you’re out.” “I’ll keep my hands to myself.” “You’ve never been good at that either.” His eyes flickered to her mouth. “No.” She stepped aside. Lucien crossed the threshold without brushing against her, careful as a man entering a room with a sleeping animal in it. She shut the door and turned each deadbolt. The clicks sounded sharp in the small hall. “Coat,” she said. He shrugged it off and handed it over. She hung it on the hook, avoiding the damp patch where his sleeve met his wrist. Beneath the coat, his suit looked immaculate. His platinum hair held its slicked-back shape despite the rain. “You look tired,” he said. “Don’t.” “I wasn’t—” “You came here to apologise. Start with that.” He nodded once. “I’m sorry I made the decision for you.” Rory put the leather book on the narrow console. “Which one?” “When I removed your name from the exchange ledger.” “That was meant to protect me, right?” “Yes.” “Did it?” “It kept them from finding you through my contacts.” “You could have told me.” “I could have.” “But you didn’t.” “No.” “You gave me a warning to stay away, then disappeared before I could ask why. I spent a week wondering whether I’d imagined the whole thing.” Lucien’s eyes held hers. “You hadn’t.” The words landed harder than they deserved. Rory crossed her arms, pressing her hands against her sleeves so she wouldn’t reach for him or the book. “You don’t get to make me feel foolish for believing you,” she said. “You don’t get to pull me close when it suits you, then decide I’m safer in the dark.” “I know.” “Do you?” “Yes.” “Then tell me what you wanted that night.” He looked at the floor. The cane stood between them, its ivory handle turned towards her. “I wanted to ask you to stay.” Rory gave a short laugh with no humour in it. “That’s convenient.” “I know how it sounds.” “It sounds like you wanted me there until things got difficult.” “That wasn’t what I wanted.” “Then what did you want?” His hand closed around the cane’s handle. “You.” She looked away first. The scattered pages on the table blurred together: inked circles, lists of names, a sketch of a door that wasn’t a door. She fixed on a coffee ring near the edge. “You had a strange way of showing it.” “I had a worse way of handling it.” “Those are not the same thing.” “No.” Ptolemy hopped onto the sofa and tucked his paws under his chest. The cat watched them with a look of measured contempt. Rory moved to the table and pulled out the chair. “Your five minutes are ticking down.” Lucien stayed by the door. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.” “That’s a relief.” “I wanted you to know I didn’t leave because I stopped wanting you.” “Wanting me isn’t an apology.” “I know.” “And it isn’t a plan.” “I know that too.” “Do you?” She turned in the chair. “Because the last time I saw you, you looked me in the eye and told me you couldn’t offer me anything ordinary. As if I’d asked for a cottage and matching teacups.” “I said I couldn’t offer you safety.” “You said you couldn’t offer me anything.” “I was afraid you’d ask me to stay.” “And if I had?” His thumb passed over the ivory handle. “I would have.” The flat seemed to draw tight around them. A fryer hissed somewhere below, and the smell of spices climbed through the floorboards. Rory remembered the press of Lucien’s palm at her back, the careful way he’d guided her through a crowded room without making her feel steered. Remembered how he’d listened when she spoke, as though her thoughts were not an inconvenience to be endured. “Why didn’t you say that then?” she asked. “Because I thought you deserved a choice made without me asking for it.” “You made the choice for me anyway.” “Yes.” She pushed back from the table. “You keep agreeing with me. It doesn’t fix anything.” “I’m not asking it to.” “Then why are you here?” He looked at the book on the console. “Because you needed it. Because I owed you an apology. Because I wanted to see you.” “That last one was the only honest answer.” “It was the first one I should have given.” Rory stood. The distance between them had narrowed to the length of the table, though neither had moved. She noticed a thin cut across his knuckle, the blood dried dark in the crease. Her attention caught there, betrayed her, and lifted to his face. “What happened to your hand?” “Nothing worth mentioning.” “Convenient.” “It caught on a lock.” “Show me.” He hesitated. “Lucien.” He held out his hand. The cut crossed his knuckle, shallow but open at the centre. Rory fetched the small tin of antiseptic from a shelf beside the kitchen and placed it on the table. “Sit down.” “I can do it.” “I know. Sit.” He took the chair. She opened the tin and reached for his hand. His fingers rested in her palm, warm against her skin. The contact stirred old memories with a precision she resented: his hand around hers in a rain-slick alley, his mouth near her ear as he whispered directions, his breath catching when she’d kissed him first. She dabbed the cut. Lucien watched her face. “You still carry antiseptic.” “I still meet people who bleed.” “Fair.” “You should have let me choose.” “I should have.” “You should have trusted me to decide whether the danger was worth it.” “I should have.” The cotton pressed against his knuckle. He didn’t flinch, but his fingers tightened around hers. “Stop making this easy,” she said. “I’m not.” “You are. You sit there and let me list your failures like it costs you nothing.” His gaze shifted to their joined hands. “It costs me more than I know how to say.” “Then say something useful.” “I missed you.” She lifted her eyes. “I missed your questions,” he continued. “The way you found the part of a problem everyone else stepped over. I missed how you looked at me when you thought I was about to lie.” “You were usually about to lie.” “I was usually about to omit something.” “That distinction never impressed me.” “It shouldn’t have.” She wrapped a narrow strip of plaster around his knuckle and pressed the end down. His hand stayed beneath hers. “You can let go now,” she said. “I can.” He didn’t. Rory kept her fingers on his. For a moment, neither of them shifted. The cat’s claws tapped against the sofa as he resettled, and the sound broke the stillness without breaking the contact. “Your five minutes are up,” she said. Lucien released her hand. “I’ll go.” She pulled the chair back. “You haven’t told me what’s in the book.” “No. I haven’t.” “Is it useful?” “Yes.” “Then explain it.” Lucien looked at her, a question held in the set of his mouth. Rory slid the book across the table. “You’ve got four minutes.”