Run: 2026-09-23-01M36REQ9GATJGP7T69DKBTJ33

The door opened on Lucien Moreau, rain stippling the shoulders of his charcoal coat. Rory kept one hand on the chain. The other curled against the doorframe, her crescent scar pale beneath the kitchen light. For a beat, neither of them moved. Behind her, Ptolemy knocked a book off the table. “Good,” Lucien said. “I’d worried you might have forgotten how to let a guest in.” “I remember. I’m choosing not to.” His mouth tightened. Water ran from his platinum hair to the collar of his shirt. One hand gripped his ivory-handled cane; the other hung at his side, fingers pressed to a dark stain spreading across his cuff. Rory looked at the blood, then at his face. “Is that yours?” “It’s not the sort I’d bring as a gift.” “Still working on your bedside manner.” “I never claimed to have one.” She unhooked the chain. Not because she wanted him inside, she told herself, but because blood on Eva’s landing would bring the curry-house owner up the stairs with questions. Rory opened the door wide enough for Lucien to pass. He stepped in. His gaze swept the cramped flat—the stacks of books, the scrolls pinned beneath chipped mugs, the open notebook on the table. Ptolemy sat on the fallen book, tail lashing. “Eva home?” “No.” “Then you’re keeping the cat from eating her research.” “Ptolemy has better taste than that.” Rory shut the door and slid all three deadbolts home. “What happened to your hand?” “Someone objected to my company.” “Were you talking?” “I was leaving.” She held out her hand. “Show me.” He glanced at her palm, then offered his injured one. The cut crossed the base of his thumb, deep enough to need stitches. She took his wrist. His skin felt cool beneath her fingers. “Sit down.” Lucien chose the chair by the table. Rory fetched the first-aid tin from the kitchen shelf, stepping around a heap of notes and a sleeping cat. He watched her return. “You still keep bandages in the tea cupboard.” “I still drink tea.” “You used to hate it.” “I used to hate you, too. People change.” His eyes lifted to hers. One amber, one black. She pulled a pair of scissors from the tin and cut away the bloodied cuff. “Do you hate me?” he asked. Rory pressed gauze to the cut. His fingers flexed once under hers. “Don’t make a mess of Eva’s chair.” “That wasn’t an answer.” “It was the one you got.” She wiped the wound with antiseptic. Lucien hissed through his teeth, though he didn’t pull away. “Someone followed you here?” she asked. “No.” “You checked?” “I did.” “Then why come?” He looked at the damp hem of her sleeve where it brushed his knee. “I needed to speak with you.” “You could have sent a message.” “I did.” “Where?” “To the bar.” “Silas doesn’t pass along notes from men who vanish without a word.” “I didn’t vanish.” “You stopped answering. You stopped appearing. Then I found out you’d been in Cardiff.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You found that out from Silas?” “From a woman who thought she was doing me a favour by mentioning you’d asked after my father.” Lucien’s gaze settled on the scissors in Rory’s hand. “I didn’t ask after Brendan.” “You asked whether he’d received a letter.” “That isn’t the same thing.” “It was enough to make me wonder what else you’d decided to do without telling me.” She wrapped gauze around his palm. The bandage came out neat, tight, and white against his skin. Her fingers brushed his knuckles at the final turn. She let go. “Keep it dry.” “Is that all?” “It’s the medical advice.” “I remember you gave better advice than that.” “You remember one conversation in a hotel room.” “I remember the room. I remember the conversation. I remember what happened before it.” Rory dropped the scissors into the tin. “Don’t.” “You asked me to stay.” “And you told me I was a liability.” Lucien sat very still. The rain tapped at the narrow window above the sink. “I was wrong to say it that way.” “That’s a tidy little sentence.” “It’s the true one.” “You could’ve tried it when it mattered.” “I thought if I made you angry enough, you’d keep your distance.” “That worked.” His fingers closed around the cane’s handle. “You were being watched.” “By whom?” “My father’s people.” “Your father’s people had been watching me for weeks. You knew that. You also knew I could make my own decisions.” “I knew you’d walk straight toward the danger if someone told you there was a person behind it.” “You didn’t have to decide for me.” “No.” His gaze met hers. “I didn’t.” The admission sat between them. It didn’t mend anything. It did make the silence harder to hide behind. Rory closed the first-aid tin. “Why are you here now?” “Because the threat is gone.” “And you came to tell me after it was over.” “I came to tell you before it began again.” Her hand stilled on the tin’s latch. “What began again?” “The people who wanted leverage over me have learnt that you aren’t leverage.” “That sounds almost reassuring.” “They’re looking for something else. I wanted you to know.” “Could’ve started with that.” “I thought you might shut the door.” “I almost did.” “But you didn’t.” “Your cuff would’ve ruined the landing.” Lucien’s mouth curved, but the expression left him before it reached his eyes. “You always did find practical reasons.” “Someone had to.” A book slid from the stack beside the table and landed open at his elbow. He caught it before it hit the floor. Rory reached for it at the same time. Their hands met on the page. Neither drew back. His thumb rested against the inside of her wrist, just above the scar. Rory could feel the warmth of his hand through her skin, steady and familiar enough to annoy her. “You used to touch me there when you wanted me to stop arguing,” she said. “I remember.” “You shouldn’t have kept that.” “I didn’t keep it. I remember you.” The words came out low. No flourish, no clever turn. Rory’s fingers tightened on the book’s edge. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.” “I mean them.” “You meant it when you said I was a liability.” “I meant that you mattered enough to frighten me.” “That isn’t an apology.” “No. It isn’t.” He released the book but didn’t take his hand from hers. “I’m sorry I took the choice from you. I’m sorry I let you believe I’d stopped caring.” She looked at him, searching for the polished evasion, the turn of phrase that would leave him with clean hands. It didn’t come. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” “Because I thought you’d come with me.” “And that would have been bad?” “It would have made you a target.” “I was already a target.” “Yes.” The bluntness struck harder than an excuse. Rory glanced down at their joined hands. The edge of his bandage had begun to spot red. “You’ve reopened it.” “Your fault.” “I wrapped it.” “You did.” “Let me fix it.” She reached for the bandage. He caught her wrist, gentle enough that she could have pulled free without effort. She didn’t. His thumb skimmed the crescent scar. The old accident had left a raised line in the skin, small as a fingernail clipping. Lucien had once kissed it after she’d told him how she got it, his mouth warm against the mark. She remembered the quiet of his room and the way he’d watched her afterwards, as if he’d handed her something he couldn’t take back. “Rory.” “Don’t use my name like you’ve earned it.” His hand fell away. She unwrapped the gauze. The cut had bled through, but the skin around it held clean. Rory dabbed at the wound, then held a fresh dressing in place. Lucien watched her face. “I missed you.” “You don’t get to put that on me.” “I know.” “Do you?” She secured the bandage with tape. “Because you came here without warning, walked into Eva’s flat, and put your blood on her chair.” “I’ll buy her a new chair.” “She’d prefer you leave her books alone.” “I’ll buy her a new book.” “Ptolemy would prefer fish.” “I’ll make a list.” “You’ll make an exit.” He didn’t move. “If that’s what you want.” Rory looked at the door, all three deadbolts catching the lamplight. She had opened it once. She had let him in. Now he sat in Eva’s chair with his wet coat dripping onto the floor, and she could feel the air between them narrowing. “I wanted you to come back,” she said. “For about a week.” Lucien’s face changed by a fraction. His fingers loosened on the cane. “Then I wanted you to hurt as much as I did.” “I did.” “Good.” “I know.” “That doesn’t make it better.” “No.” She leaned back against the table. His knee nearly touched hers. “You’re supposed to tell me you regret it.” “I regret the way I left. I don’t regret keeping you alive.” “Those aren’t the same thing.” “No.” “Are you going to keep saying that?” “If it’s true.” The answer scraped at her patience and settled somewhere beneath it. She reached for his coat, then stopped with her hand inches from the lapel. “Take it off before it ruins Eva’s floor.” He shrugged out of it and held it towards her. She hung it over the back of another chair. When she turned, Lucien had risen. The cane stood beside him, his bandaged hand at his side. “You should sit,” she said. “I’m fine.” “You’re bleeding through your bandage.” His eyes dropped to his palm. “Then I should sit.” “Good. We’ve established that you can follow instructions.” He lowered himself into the chair. Rory took the space beside him rather than across the table. The flat seemed smaller with him there; books crowded the windowsill, Ptolemy pushed his head against her ankle, and the kettle clicked as it cooled. Lucien’s hand rested between them, palm up. Rory looked at it. “You don’t get to kiss me and disappear again.” “I won’t.” “You don’t know that.” “No,” he said. “But I know I don’t want to.” Her pulse beat against the scar on her wrist. “That isn’t enough.” “Tell me what is.” She turned towards him. “Start by staying here until I’m finished asking questions.” His gaze held hers. “All right.” “Then don’t touch me unless I ask.” His hand remained open between them. “All right.” Rory let the silence stretch. She watched the rain slide down the window, then looked back at him. “Did you ever mean to come back?” “Yes.” “When?” “Every day.” “That’s not a time.” “No. It’s the truth.” She studied his face for another second, then placed her fingers in his open palm. His hand closed around hers without pulling her closer. “Tell me what happened in Cardiff,” she said. Lucien drew breath. Rory kept hold of his hand.