Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HTAZ2DDHTY9SWW3DS7Z9R

The man on Rory’s landing wore a charcoal suit darkened by rain at the shoulders. Water ran from the tip of his ivory-handled cane onto the bare boards. For a moment she could only look at him. Three weeks had done nothing to make Lucien Moreau less recognizable: the slicked-back platinum hair, the straight-backed patience, one amber eye and one black fixed on her face. “No,” she said. “I haven’t asked anything.” “You came up the stairs.” From the bar below came a burst of laughter, then the muffled thud of music. Lucien glanced toward the sound. Rory almost shut the door. She had imagined him turning up often enough to know exactly how she would do it: quietly, with her hand flat against the wood. Instead she kept hold of the edge. “You have a right to be angry,” he said. “I know.” “Yes.” His fingers tightened once around the cane. “You do.” There was no neat answer to that. Rory had expected a defense, and the absence of one left her standing in the doorway with the cold creeping over her bare feet. Lucien reached into his coat. She stiffened before she could stop herself. He saw it and withdrew an empty hand. “May I tell you why I’m here?” “From there.” He nodded. Rain ticked against the stairwell window behind him. “Evan came back to Silas’s bar tonight. An hour ago.” Rory felt the muscles in her stomach draw tight. “Was he looking for me?” “He asked whether you still lived upstairs. Silas told him to leave.” “Did he?” “Yes. I watched him go.” “Where?” “Toward the high street. I don’t know where he went after that.” She looked past Lucien at the stairs. Evan had been here, one floor beneath her. She’d been sitting on her sofa eating cold noodles from a Golden Empress carton, irritated by a delivery note she couldn’t decipher. If she’d gone down for a drink— “Did Silas call the police?” she asked. “He offered. Evan left before he could.” “I’ll talk to Silas.” “He’s waiting downstairs. He knows I came up.” Of course he did. Silas owned the bar and the flat above it; nobody got past him without an explanation. Rory looked back at Lucien. “You could have sent me a message.” “I thought you deserved to hear it from me.” “After the last time you decided what I deserved to hear?” His face changed then. Not much. A faint pull at the corner of his mouth, gone before it became a smile. “That was badly put.” “It was.” “I came because I saw Evan and knew you needed to know. And because I owe you an apology. I should have sent the message first.” Rory’s hand had begun to ache where it gripped the door. She let go, then folded her arms. The crescent scar on her left wrist showed beneath the cuff of her jumper, pale under the hall light. Lucien’s gaze dropped to it for an instant and returned to her face. Three weeks ago, Silas had told her Evan had come into the bar asking questions. Silas had also told her Lucien knew, and had asked him not to bring it up until they had more information. Three days of deliveries, of walking home with her headphones in, of sleeping above the place Evan had visited. Three days in which Lucien had shared her bed once and said nothing. “You knew he’d been here before,” she said. “Yes.” “And you asked Silas to keep it from me.” “Yes.” “Why?” “I was trying to find out whether he had someone watching you. If he had, I wanted a name before we told you.” “There wasn’t anyone, was there?” “I found no one.” “And while you were finding no one, I went on with my life thinking he was still in Cardiff.” Lucien swallowed. “I’m sorry.” She believed he was. That had been one of the worst parts of it, sitting at Eva’s kitchen table after Silas told her, Ptolemy winding between her ankles while she tried to find a reason Lucien would lie. He had wanted her safe. He had wanted it badly enough to shut her out. “He used to do that,” she said. “Evan. He’d hold something back and tell me it was better I didn’t worry. Then when I found out, I’d have to thank him for taking care of it.” “I know.” “You know now.” “I knew you’d left him because he hurt you.” Lucien’s voice stayed low. “I didn’t understand how much what I did resembled it. I should have. You told me enough.” For the first time since opening the door, Rory looked at him without trying to make him leave. He was wet, tired, and plainly uncomfortable. His cane stood planted beside his shoe, its blade hidden inside, as familiar to her as the smooth amber of his eye. She knew the way he took his tea and the way his French sharpened when he was cross. None of that changed what had happened. None of it went away because he’d hurt her, either. “You made a decision about my safety without me,” she said. “If he’d shown up on a delivery, I wouldn’t have known to call anyone.” “I know.” “I need you to say what you’d do differently.” “I would call you as soon as I knew he was in London. I would tell you what I knew and what I didn’t. Then I would ask what you wanted me to do.” The words came promptly, but not smoothly. He’d thought them through. Rory stepped back from the doorway. Lucien stayed where he was. “I’m not asking you to come in for that,” she said. “You’re dripping on the landing.” “Ah.” He glanced down at the puddle around his cane. “Come in.” He crossed the threshold. Rory shut the door and slid the bolt home, then moved aside so he could take off his coat. Her flat was too small to give them much distance. The table held a stack of unopened post and an empty takeaway carton. A damp tea towel hung over the back of a chair. Lucien laid his coat across that chair only after she pointed to it. “I can make tea,” she said. “I can leave, if you would rather.” “You can do both things at different times.” His mouth softened. “Tea, then.” In the kitchen alcove, Rory filled the kettle. Below them a song ended and another began, its bass coming up through the floorboards. She took down two mugs. She had not put away the second one in the three weeks since he’d last been there; it sat where she always left it, near the front of the shelf. Lucien stopped beside the table. He didn’t touch the post or sit down. “Did Evan threaten Silas?” she asked. “No. He asked about you. When Silas told him to leave, he said you would want to know he’d come.” “He wanted me frightened.” “I think so.” Rory put the kettle on its base. “He managed it.” “I’m sorry,” Lucien said again. “This part isn’t yours to apologize for.” “I know.” He looked at her. “Will you stay here tonight?” It was a question, not an instruction. She heard the care he’d put into that. “I haven’t decided. Eva said I could use her place if I needed to. She’s away until Sunday, and Ptolemy would probably appreciate the company.” “I can take you there.” “I can get there myself.” “Yes,” he said. “You can.” The kettle clicked and began to heat. Rory leaned against the counter. “Why did you stay away after I left?” “You told me not to come to Eva’s.” “I told you I couldn’t talk to you that night.” “I thought you needed time. Then I kept thinking one more day might help.” He glanced at the window. “I called you twice. I didn’t leave a message.” “I saw.” “I hoped you might call back.” “I nearly did.” She’d picked up her phone one night after a delivery shift and sat with his name on the screen until it went dark. “I didn’t know what to say.” “Neither did I.” That, at least, sounded like him. Beneath the polished suit and the four languages, Lucien could be stubbornly bad at saying what mattered to him. Rory had once found it charming. She still did, which annoyed her. She poured boiling water into the mugs and handed him one. Their fingers brushed. The contact was brief, but her skin remembered him at once: his hand warm against her back while they crossed a crowded street, his thumb tracing her wrist in the dark. Lucien wrapped both hands around the mug. “I missed you.” Rory looked down at her tea. “You don’t get to say that and have it fix things.” “I know. I missed you anyway.” “I missed you too.” He went still. She could feel the weight of his attention, but he waited while she found the rest. “I like you, Lucien. More than I meant to. When Silas told me, I was angry because I should have known Evan was nearby. I was also angry because I’d trusted you with things I hardly tell anyone, and you thought I’d rather have you decide for me.” “I didn’t think you were incapable.” “I know. You thought you could spare me the fear.” “Yes.” “You can’t.” “No.” He set his mug on the table. “I won’t try to do that again.” Rory studied him. She wanted to believe him, and wanting made her cautious. Outside, a bus hissed along the wet road. Someone downstairs called for another round. Ordinary sounds continued while she stood here deciding whether to reach for the man she’d spent three weeks avoiding. “I need to talk to Silas,” she said. “Then I’m going to Eva’s for the night. I’ll tell her what happened, and I’ll decide tomorrow whether to report it.” “Good.” “I don’t need you to come with me.” “All right.” “But you can walk me downstairs.” Lucien’s gaze met hers. “I’d like that.” She set her tea down and went for her coat. When she turned back, he had stayed by the table. He had learned to wait tonight, at least. That did not settle everything between them. It gave her room to move toward him. “I haven’t forgiven you yet,” she said. “I understand.” “I do want to kiss you.” His breath caught. “Rory.” She crossed the small space. “You can ask.” “May I kiss you?” “Yes.” Lucien lifted a hand to her cheek and paused there, giving her another chance to change her mind. Rory closed the last inch herself. His lips were cold from the rain. The kiss warmed slowly, tender enough to make her chest ache. She rested her hand against the damp shoulder of his shirt, holding him close for a moment before she drew back. His eyes opened. He said nothing. Rory picked up her keys from the table. “Silas first.” Lucien took his coat from the chair and opened the door for her. She went ahead of him onto the landing, where the rainwater had begun to dry on the boards.