Run: 2026-09-23-01M36P03WDD2K67HF9AR28QMET

The door opened against the chain, leaving a narrow gap between Rory and Lucien Moreau. For a beat, neither moved. His platinum hair held its precise sweep; his charcoal coat showed rain along the shoulders. The ivory knob of his cane rested beneath one hand. In the gap, Rory saw his amber eye, then the black one. She kept her fingers on the door’s edge. “You’ve got the wrong flat.” “Eva’s name is on the bell.” “Eva isn’t in.” “I came to see you.” “Then you’ve got the wrong evening.” Ptolemy wound around Rory’s ankles, his tail brushing her calf. The tabby stopped at the threshold and fixed Lucien with the suspicion of a magistrate. Lucien glanced down. “He remembers me.” “He remembers you tried to feed him olives.” “He ate one.” “He spat it into your shoe.” “An act of poor judgement on both sides.” Rory’s mouth twitched before she could stop it. She shut it down and shifted her shoulder against the door. The chain held. Behind her, books and scrolls crowded the little flat’s shelves, and a stack of Eva’s notes had slid across the kitchen table into a tea ring. “What do you want?” “Five minutes.” “You had more than five minutes last time.” “I know.” The words landed without defence. That made them harder to brush aside. Rory studied his face through the gap. He looked rested, dressed, assembled. She remembered the way he’d appeared in the back room of the Golden Empress after midnight, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cut across his knuckles and her name in his mouth as though he’d been carrying it there all night. She remembered the kiss that followed. Then the morning after, when she learned he’d known Evan had been looking for her and had chosen not to tell her. The chain scraped as she tested it with her thumb. “Five minutes,” she said. “You stay by the door.” “Agreed.” She shut the door, lifted the chain, and opened it again. Lucien stepped inside. His cane clicked once against the floorboards. Rory closed the door and slid all three deadbolts into place. “You still prefer a fortress,” he said. “I prefer doors that stay shut.” His gaze travelled over her face and settled on the small crescent scar at her left wrist, visible beneath her pushed-up sleeve. Rory pulled the cuff down. “Don’t.” His eyes returned to hers. “I didn’t say anything.” “You looked.” “I can stop looking.” “Can you?” The question held them there. Lucien’s hand tightened around the cane handle, the only sign that it had struck. Rory moved past him into the kitchen. “Five minutes.” Ptolemy followed, then sat on a book beside the radiator. The flat smelled of black tea, paper, and the curry house downstairs. Rory took a mug from the counter and poured from the chipped kettle. She didn’t ask if Lucien wanted one. He stayed near the door. “You came all this way to stand in the draught?” “I came because I owed you an apology.” “You’ve owed me one for months.” “I know.” “Do you have anything besides that?” Lucien took a breath. The cane’s silver ferrule tapped once against the boards, then went still. “I should have told you Evan had been asking questions.” Rory set the kettle down. “You should have told me you’d made a deal with him.” “I didn’t make a deal.” “You gave him information.” “I gave him a name he already had.” “He didn’t know where I was.” “He knew you’d left Cardiff. He knew you’d come to London. He was asking everyone who might have seen you.” “And you decided I didn’t need to know.” “I thought telling you would put you in more danger.” “You thought wrong.” “Yes.” She turned, mug in hand. “That’s it? You thought wrong?” “No.” Lucien’s jaw shifted. “I thought I could manage the risk for you. I mistook your fear for a reason to take the choice out of your hands.” The kettle ticked as it cooled. Rory lifted the mug, but the tea was too hot to drink. She held it between both hands. “That sounds almost like you understand.” “I do understand.” “Understanding after the fact doesn’t change what you did.” “I’m not asking it to.” He said it without lowering his eyes or dressing the admission up. Rory hated that it made her believe him. She set the mug on the table. “Why now?” “Because I heard you were staying here.” “That’s not an answer.” “No.” He glanced at the notes scattered around them. “I heard you’d been asking questions about a man in Limehouse who sells names. I came to tell you not to meet him alone.” Rory gave a short laugh. “You crossed the city to give me an order?” “To give you information.” “Try that again.” “His name is Dorian Vale. He’s not a broker. He sells people to anyone who can pay.” “I know who he is.” “Then you know he’s dangerous.” “I know enough to decide what I do with that.” “I didn’t come to stop you.” “You came to tell me what to do.” “I came because I didn’t want you walking into a room without knowing what waited in it.” “Last time, you kept me in the dark and called it protection. Why should I take your word now?” Lucien’s mouth opened. He shut it again and let the silence stand. Rory took a drink. The tea burned her tongue. “You could’ve sent a message.” “I considered it.” “And?” “I didn’t want another thing left between us that you had to read alone.” Her fingers tightened around the mug. “You don’t get to decide what happens between us.” “No.” He looked at her. “I don’t.” The room seemed to contract around the table, the notes, the two of them. Rory noticed the rain slipping from his coat onto the floor. One dark drop spread near his shoe. “You kissed me,” she said. “Then you lied to me.” “I did.” “Was the kiss a lie too?” “No.” His answer came fast. Rory had expected a pause, a qualification, one of those careful little phrases he used when he wanted to keep every door open. She found herself searching his face for the trick. Lucien held her gaze. “You don’t get to say that like it fixes anything.” “I know.” “Stop agreeing with me.” “What would you prefer?” “Something honest.” His fingers eased around the cane. “I wanted you. I still want you. I also thought wanting you gave me the right to choose what you could bear. It didn’t.” Rory looked down at the mug. A pale crescent of tea clung to the rim. “You make everything sound tidy.” “I’m not trying to make it tidy.” “No? You’ve got three clean sentences and a polished coat.” “I can take off the coat.” “That isn’t what I meant.” “I know.” She set the mug down with a hard click. “You keep saying that as if it proves you’ve changed.” “What would prove it?” “Nothing you can say in my kitchen.” He nodded once. The gesture carried no appeal. He looked at the space between them, then at the door he’d come through. His hand shifted on the cane. Rory watched him reach for nothing. “You’re leaving?” “You said five minutes.” “I said you could stay by the door.” “I can go.” The flat went quiet except for the hiss of a pipe behind the wall. Ptolemy rose from the radiator and stretched, his claws catching in Eva’s notes. Rory moved first, stepping around the table. “Don’t make me ask you to stay.” Lucien stopped. She stood close enough to see the small scar at his chin, a faint line she’d touched once with her thumb while he was speaking French into her hair. The memory arrived intact: the warmth of his skin, his laugh against her cheek, her own hand resting on his chest before she remembered the door he kept locked inside himself. “Your five minutes aren’t up,” she said. “No.” “And I haven’t decided what I think of your apology.” “I wouldn’t expect you to.” “I still don’t trust you.” “I know.” Her eyes narrowed. “One more time and I’ll throw you out.” A hint of warmth reached his face, then stopped short of becoming a smile. “Understood.” Rory lifted her hand, then let it fall before she could touch him. Lucien watched the movement. He didn’t reach for her. “What did Dorian want with me?” she asked. “He thinks you have something he can use.” “What?” “I don’t know.” “Then you came here with half a warning.” “I came with what I had.” “And you expect me to thank you?” “No.” She folded her arms, aware of the distance between them and the fact that it no longer felt like enough. “Tell me everything you know about him,” she said. “Start with why he knows my name.” Lucien’s eyes held hers. His hand moved from the cane to the edge of the table, leaving the blade hidden and his palm open. “Before I do,” he said, “I need to know what you heard about me.”