Page 13 of Infernal Affairs

She hands off the box with a wink and goes back to stacking chairs, pretending she’s not matchmaking.

I knew what she was doing.

I let her anyway.

It’s not that I expect anything, exactly. I’m not even sure what I want from Enoch other than... what?

The slow-burning way he looks at me. His voice, all calm and steady. The rare moments when he actually laughs and the shape of his mouth shifts like he’s unpracticed. The feeling that, in a world of grand gestures, he notices the smallest things—how I tie my apron, the way I grind sugar for Linzer tarts, how sometimes, when I’m tired, I forget to smile and he never calls me out for it.

It’s not love.

Or maybe it’s not only love.

It’s something quieter than that, something that hasn’t decided what it is yet.

I just want him to know I exist outside the bakery.

That’s a reasonable thing to want.

The winding path is slick with saltwater spray. The air tastes pure and metallic, like a kitchen knife freshly sharpened. Every step up the cliff makes the lighthouse loom larger, less a scenic town emblem and more like a colossal tombstone.

All the windows are dark, but a faint light glows from the slit at the very top.

I slow at the door, my heart hammering like a loose hinge in the wind.

The brass knocker is shaped like a fish. Clover says it’s a salmon, but I’m pretty sure it’s a sturgeon—big dumb lips and a vacant stare.

It feels right to knock, though.

Even if you know someone’s home, you honor the threshold.

I’m bracing for a wait—Enoch is the kind of guy who moves at the speed of tectonic plates—but the door swings open after the very first tap.

He looks somehow taller in his own space.

The hallway is narrow, lined with books piled in stacks along the edges.

I resist the urge to adjust my ponytail, but he notices anyway.

It’s one of his things.

“Good evening, Daisy,” he says, low and warm as always, but there’s surprise there too. Not the unwelcome kind. “Delivery for the night watch?”

I hold up the box, the top already softened with damp.

“You left your cookie punch card at the bakery,” I improvise. “Couldn’t let you forfeit your free dozen.”

“It’s a conspiracy,” he deadpans. “Come in. It’s colder than expected.”

There’s a moment when I’m sure he regrets saying it—hospitality does not come naturally to Enoch—but instead he steps back and gestures with an old-fashioned flourish, like a stage magician inviting me into a cabinet.

Inside, it’s different than I pictured.

Less lair, more long-term sublet.

The entryway is functional and tidy, but after two steps the whole place opens up into ceilings that stagger higher than I’d ever imagined.

The living room—a half circle of windows facing out to sea—holds a battered sofa, a coffee table made from a slab of granite, and exactly one armchair.