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Lucien’s mouth quirks, not quite a smile but something smaller, more dangerous. “A bribe.”

I should slam the door in his face.

But instead, I step back and let him in.

He moves like a shadow across the threshold, careful in a way that’s almost deliberate, like he knows one wrong step will send me closing the door again, this time for good.

The kitten wriggles in his arms as he crosses the room, its tiny paws batting at the string dangling from his sleeve. He sets it down carefully on the bed, and it immediately launches itself at the rumpled sheets like it owns the place.

I fold my arms over my chest, keeping distance between us. “You brought me a cat.”

His gaze meets mine then, cool and sharp as ever. “You looked like you needed something to claw at.”

It’s such a Lucien answer—sharp-edged, carefully deflected—but it lands anyway, burrowing somewhere beneath my ribs before I can stop it.

I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want him here, shouldn’t want the way his presence makes everything in me tilt sideways.

But I do.

The kitten scrambles up the blankets toward me, a little dark blur with too-big eyes and ridiculous energy, and I can’t help it—I reach down and scoop it into my hands, feeling the way it’s all bone and warmth and fragile heartbeat.

Lucien’s watching me when I look up, his expression unreadable, like he’s waiting for me to say something cruel. Like he expects me to tell him to leave.

“You’re really bad at apologies.”

His mouth curls, faint and dangerous. “I know.”

The kitten claws gently at my sleeve, climbing higher, purring like it’s already decided I’m its entire world.

I glance back at him, my voice quieter now, edged with something I can’t quite name. “You don’t have to fix this.”

Lucien’s eyes flicker at that, something sharp sliding beneath the surface. “I know.”

There’s a beat, heavier than it should be, stretching between us like a pulled thread.

And then, softer—almost too soft to catch—he says, “But I wanted to.”

It’s the way he’s standing there like he doesn’t know how to cross the space between us anymore. The way he’s still trying.

The kitten purrs louder, burrowing against me, like it’s not another piece of this strange, aching puzzle we’ve all been circling for too long. I glance back up at him, and this time, I let myself smile. Just a little. Just enough.

“Next time,” I murmur, voice quiet but pointed, “try flowers.”

His gaze catches on mine, sharp and dangerous, but something softer at the edges now.

“I don’t do flowers,” he says.

“This is really unfair,”

He exhales slowly, like he’s releasing something he’s held in too long. “I’m sorry.”

I glance up at that, eyebrows lifting before I can stop myself.

He meets my eyes, and for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t look like he’s preparing for a fight. His mouth curves, but it isn’t cruel. “For what I said,” he clarifies. “I didn’t mean it.”

I stare at him for a long moment, weighing that, knowing how hard it is for him to spit the words out like that. But I don’t let him off easy.

“Yes, you did,” I murmur, voice steady. “You meant every word of it. You just didn’t mean to say it out loud.”