Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKH4YBRS7DW1T5GWBGWXCG

The knock came just as the kettle began to whistle. Rory froze, the chipped mug halfway to her lips. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, uncurled from his spot on the windowsill, ears twitching. The flat was too quiet for visitors at this hour—past midnight, the curry house below long since closed, the street outside a hush of flickering lamplight and distant footsteps. Another knock. Firmer this time. She set the mug down. The tea inside sloshed, untouched. Three deadbolts stood between her and whoever was on the other side. She wasn’t expecting anyone. “Who is it?” Silence. Then, a voice—smooth, accented, unmistakable. “Open the door, Rory.” Her breath hitched. The mug slipped from her fingers, clattering against the counter. Lucien. She hadn’t heard that voice in six months. Not since the night she’d walked out of his office, his last words still ringing in her ears: *You’re making a mistake.* She pressed her palm against the door, as if she could feel him through the wood. “Go away.” “Not without talking to you.” Ptolemy wound between her legs, tail flicking. She scooped him up, more for her own steadying than his. The cat purred, oblivious. “There’s nothing to talk about.” A beat. Then, the doorknob rattled. Not forced—just tested, as if he were weighing his options. “You’re lying. To me. To yourself.” She clenched her jaw. Damn him. Damn that infuriating, knowing tone. She set Ptolemy down and marched to the door, flipping the first deadbolt with more force than necessary. The second followed, then the third. The door swung open before she could change her mind. Lucien stood there, impeccable as ever in a charcoal suit, the collar of his shirt undone just enough to suggest he’d been in a hurry. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—locked onto hers. The cane was absent, but she knew it was there, hidden in the folds of his coat. Rain glistened on his slicked-back platinum hair, the scent of ozone and something darker, something like burnt sugar, clinging to him. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Just stood there, filling the doorway with his presence. “You look tired,” he said. She wanted to slam the door in his face. Wanted to. But her body betrayed her, leaning into the frame instead. “What do you want, Luc?” His gaze flicked over her shoulder, into the flat. “To come in.” “No.” “Rory.” “No.” She crossed her arms. The scar on her left wrist itched. Old habit—Evan’s grip had always been tightest there. Lucien exhaled through his nose, a sound like a man running out of patience. “Fine. We’ll do this in the hallway.” He stepped forward, crowding her space. She didn’t retreat. The heat of him seeped through her thin pyjama top, the scent of him wrapping around her like a memory she’d tried to bury. “You’re dripping on my floor,” she said. He glanced down at the puddle forming at his feet, then back at her. “Invite me in.” “Or what?” “Or I’ll stand here until you do.” She should’ve known he’d be stubborn. Lucien Moreau didn’t give up. Not on a deal. Not on a debt. And, apparently, not on her. With a sharp inhale, she stepped back, gesturing him inside with a sweep of her arm. “Five minutes.” He didn’t wait for the invitation to be repeated. He moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers, sending a jolt through her that she refused to acknowledge. The flat felt smaller with him in it, the walls pressing in. He took in the chaos—the books stacked on every surface, the scrolls pinned to the walls with knife-thin precision, the half-empty teacup on the counter. “Still living like a scholar with a hoarding problem,” he remarked. “Still dressing like a man who’s compensating for something,” she shot back. That earned her the ghost of a smirk. “You always did have a way with words.” She didn’t return the smile. “Clock’s ticking.” He turned to face her, the amusement fading. “I need your help.” The words hung between them, heavy. She’d expected a lot of things—apologies, accusations, maybe even a confession—but not this. Not a request. Lucien didn’t ask for help. He traded for it. He manipulated. He never *needed*. “My help?” she echoed. “There’s a job. Something… delicate.” His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he were resisting the urge to reach for her. “I can’t do it alone.” She barked a laugh. “Since when do you need a partner?” His jaw tightened. “Since the last one got me shot.” The humour drained from her. “What?” “A minor inconvenience.” He waved a hand, but the way his left arm favoured his side told another story. “The point is, I need someone I can trust. Someone who won’t stab me in the back the second things go sideways.” “And you think that’s me?” “I *know* it’s you.” She turned away, rubbing her temples. The flat was too warm, the air too thick. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.” “Rory.” She whirled back. “No. You don’t get to waltz in here after six months of radio silence and expect me to just—what? Fall in line? Pretend nothing happened?” “Nothing *did* happen.” “Bullshit.” The word was out before she could stop it. Ptolemy, sensing the tension, slunk under the sofa. “You kissed me. Then you pushed me away. Then you *let me walk out that door* like it was nothing. Like *I* was nothing.” His eyes darkened. “You think I didn’t want to stop you?” “You didn’t.” “I *did*.” His voice was low, rough. “Every damn day since.” The admission hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled back, her hip catching the edge of the counter. “Then why the hell didn’t you?” “Because you were right to leave.” He took a step forward, then another, until he was close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his black eye seemed to swallow the light. “Because I’m not good for you, Rory. Because the life I lead—it’s not one you should be part of.” “That’s not your decision to make.” “It is when I’m the one who’ll get you killed.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to scream. But the raw edge in his voice, the way his hands clenched at his sides like he was stopping himself from touching her—it stole the fight from her. “So what’s changed?” she asked quietly. “Nothing.” His throat worked. “And everything.” The silence stretched, thick with everything they weren’t saying. The rain outside had stopped, leaving only the distant hum of the city and the sound of their breathing. Finally, she sighed, running a hand through her hair. “What’s the job?” Lucien’s shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. “There’s a relic. An old one. Stolen from a collector in Whitechapel. I need to get it back before it ends up in the wrong hands.” “And you need me because…?” “Because it’s warded. Heavy magic. The kind that’ll fry anyone who touches it without the right counter-spells.” He tilted his head. “And you, *chérie*, are the only one I know who can read the damn things.” She wanted to refuse. Wanted to tell him to find someone else, to walk out that door and never look back. But the truth was, she’d missed this—the thrill of the hunt, the puzzle of ancient magic, the way her mind raced when she was up against something no one else could solve. And, God help her, she’d missed *him*. “Fine,” she said at last. “But I’m not doing this for free.” A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Wouldn’t expect you to.” She should’ve known he’d have an answer for that. Should’ve known he’d be ready for her. But as she looked at him—really looked at him, at the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders—she realised something else. He wasn’t just here for the job. And neither was she.