Run: 2026-10-05-01M46BMW9YVSF0ZBPHS05T5ZTP

The door opened against the toe of Lucien Moreau’s polished shoe. Rory kept her hand on the third deadbolt. “No.” Lucien withdrew his foot. Rain silvered the shoulders of his charcoal suit and gathered along the ivory handle of his cane. His platinum hair had lost its smooth arrangement; a strand lay across his forehead. “Eva?” “Edinburgh.” His amber eye moved to the strip of light beside her. The black one stayed on her face. “She told me Thursday.” “It is Thursday.” “Next Thursday.” “Take it up with her.” Rory pushed the door. He caught its edge, then flinched and let go. Blood marked the paint beneath his fingers. She looked at his hand. His sleeve covered most of it, but a dark line ran from his cuff to his smallest finger. “What happened?” “A disagreement.” “Did the other person bring a knife to the discussion?” “A bottle.” “And you brought your charming personality?” “I see you kept your copy.” She should have shut the door. She had spent six weeks rehearsing that movement: a flat palm against wood, three bolts, no conversation through the letterbox. Instead, she looked down the narrow staircase. Curry-house heat rose through the stairwell, carrying cumin, fried onions and the clatter of dishes. Lucien stood between her and the landing rail with one shoulder held at an angle she recognised from delivery cyclists who insisted they hadn’t broken anything. “Are you bleeding anywhere else?” “No.” “Is that an honest no or one of yours?” He loosened his grip on the cane. “My hand. My forearm. Nothing else.” Rory stepped back. “Come in before Mrs Rahman sees you. She’ll get the good towels.” He crossed the threshold without brushing against her. That small courtesy irritated her more than contact would have. She slid the deadbolts home. Ptolemy emerged from beneath a chair, inspected Lucien’s wet trouser leg, then pressed his striped head against it. “Traitor.” The cat ignored her. Lucien looked around Eva’s flat. Books occupied the sofa, scrolls stood in a chipped umbrella holder, and research notes covered the table beneath three mugs and a bowl of keys. Rory had cleared a rectangle of floor for her overnight bag. “You’re staying here?” “Her boiler leaked. Someone had to let the plumber in and stop Ptolemy eating the invoices.” “How long?” She held out her hand. “Coat.” He started to shrug it off. His jaw tightened. “Stop.” Rory moved behind him and eased the wet wool down his uninjured arm first. The lining caught at his other wrist. He drew a breath through his teeth. “Bottle?” “Broken bottle.” “That distinction would have helped on the doorstep.” Blood had soaked the shirt beneath his jacket. Rory hung the coat over the bathroom door and fetched Eva’s first-aid box from under the sink. “Kitchen.” “There’s no room.” “There’s a stool. Move the Latin dictionaries.” “They’re Greek.” “Bleed in Greek, then.” He stacked the books on the floor and sat. His cane leaned against the cupboard beside his knee. Rory set scissors, gauze and antiseptic on the counter. She reached for his cuff, then stopped. “Can you undo that?” He worked the button with his left hand. It slipped twice. The last time she had unbuttoned his shirt, he had stood in her doorway above Silas’ bar, one hand cupping the back of her neck. She had laughed against his mouth because he’d knocked a takeaway menu off the wall. Before morning, she had found the folded receipt in his jacket. Evan’s name. Lucien’s signature. A sum she could not have paid with a year of deliveries. She took the scissors. “I’ll cut it.” “It’s a good shirt.” “It’s having a poor evening.” He held still while she slit the sleeve from wrist to elbow. A shallow cut ran along his forearm. The wound across his palm gaped when he moved his fingers. Rory put down the scissors. “That needs stitches.” “It needs pressure.” “It needs someone who knows what they’re doing.” “I’ve had worse.” “So have badly maintained staircases. Hold this.” She pressed folded gauze into his palm. He obeyed, his long fingers closing around it. “Why did you come here?” “Eva has something that closes wounds.” “Of course she does.” “Blue tin. Red writing.” Rory glanced at the shelves over the kettle. Between a jar of tea and a fossilised lemon sat a blue tin labelled NOT BISCUITS. She took it down. “Will this do something unpleasant to humans?” “Only if they eat it.” “Eva needs better labels.” “She believes that one is sufficient.” Rory opened the tin. The ointment inside smelled of cloves and hot metal. Lucien watched her scoop a little onto a clean piece of gauze. “You don’t have to do this.” “You’ve bled on her dictionaries. I’m limiting the damage.” “Rory.” She paused at the sound of her name. Not Aurora, delivered with that careful French precision he used when other people watched them. Rory, low in the cramped kitchen, with his knee inches from hers. “Don’t.” “All right.” She wiped the cut on his forearm. The edges drew together beneath the ointment, leaving a pink seam. She kept her eyes on it. “Why didn’t you go home?” “My supply had dried out.” “You could have called.” “You blocked my number.” “You own four phones.” “Five.” “There it is.” “I didn’t use them.” Her hand stopped. He looked down at the gauze pressed between his fingers. “You told me not to contact you. I thought using another number would defeat the purpose.” “You thought paying my ex without asking me was fine.” “No.” “You thought it at the time.” “Yes.” The answer landed without any of the polish she had prepared to fight. Rory turned to the sink and rinsed blood from her fingers. Water knocked against the stainless steel. Behind her, his shoe scraped the floor, then stopped. “Don’t get up.” “I wasn’t leaving.” “That wasn’t what I meant.” She shut off the tap. A droplet hung from her wrist, beside the small crescent scar. “He called it a debt, Lucien.” “I know.” “No, you read a document. I know what he called it when he stood outside my work. I know what he called it when he wanted a reason to get me alone.” Lucien’s uninjured hand flattened against his thigh. “I should have brought it to you.” “You bought it.” “Yes.” “As if the problem was who owned it.” His gaze lifted to hers. “There was no valid debt. I paid him to sign a release and give up the papers he’d been using.” “And then you kept the release.” “I put it in my jacket to bring to you.” “You had dinner with me first.” “Yes.” “You kissed me first.” His mouth tightened. “Yes.” Rory gripped the edge of the counter. She remembered his hands on either side of her plate, his smile when she stole the last piece of bread. He had known throughout that meal. Every time she had leaned towards him, he had known. “I kept wondering whether you looked at me and saw another job.” “No.” “You don’t get to make that word do all the work.” He glanced at the kitchen table. Eva’s notes crowded its surface, dense with arrows and cramped handwriting. “I saw a way to stop him reaching you. I took it before anyone could interfere.” “Anyone meaning me.” “Yes.” The flat seemed to shrink around that answer. Rory could hear Ptolemy scratching at a closed cupboard, and someone downstairs laughing over the restaurant till. She pulled the empty stool closer and sat. “Give me your hand.” Lucien extended it, palm up. She removed the blood-soaked gauze. He had a faint scar beneath his thumb that she hadn’t noticed before. His hand dwarfed the dressing she held. “This will hurt?” “A little.” “That’s not a useful measurement from you.” “It will sting.” She applied the ointment. His fingers curled, then opened under hers. Rory rested her other hand beneath his wrist to keep it steady. Heat passed through the thin skin there. His pulse struck against her thumb. “I didn’t need you to leave me helpless so you could rescue me.” “I know.” “Do you?” He leaned forward, stopping before his knee touched hers. “I’ve sent the original release to your solicitor. I kept no copy. Eva has the confirmation, if you want it from someone other than me.” “When?” “The Monday after you found it.” “Six weeks ago.” “Yes.” “And you didn’t tell me?” “You told me to leave. I left.” She examined the closing wound. A bead of blood remained in the crease of his palm; she caught it with the corner of the gauze. For six weeks, she had expected a message clever enough to make her doubt herself. Flowers downstairs. A favour she couldn’t refuse. Lucien turning the machinery of his life towards getting her back. He had done none of those things. She hated that she had mistaken the silence for indifference. “You could have told Eva to tell me.” “I asked her to give you the papers. Not a message.” Rory set the gauze aside, but his wrist stayed in her hand. Lucien looked at the place where she held him. He didn’t move. “You should have trusted me.” “I should have.” “I would have been frightened.” “I know.” “I might have shouted at you.” “One of the possibilities I robbed myself of.” A laugh escaped her, short and unwelcome. She pressed her lips together. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m angry.” He bowed his head, but she caught the change in his mouth. “Understood.” The cut had closed. She traced its edge with her thumb, checking for any gap, and felt his fingers shift beneath hers. “Does that hurt?” “No.” She looked up. Neither of them reached across the remaining distance. Rory kept hold of his hand. “What were you going to tell me that night, before I found the receipt?” Lucien drew his stool an inch closer. It rasped against the kitchen tiles. “That I wanted to stay. And that I didn’t know how to ask without making it sound as though I’d already decided.” “You had your overnight bag in the car?” “Yes.” She looked at his rain-dark collar, the ruined sleeve, the face she had refused to let herself miss. “Then start with the question.”