Page 17 of Infernal Affairs

Zadok’s voice drops to something only I can hear. “You’re not doing her a favor by pretending you don’t care.”

I snatch the file, realize it isn’t mine, and have to put it back. My hands are shaking, minutely. “You shouldn’t meddle.”

He grins, all teeth and fangs. “If I didn’t, you’d still be living in a cave. Go. I have a city to run.”

I leave, but the hollow feeling follows me all the way out, across the parking lot to the footpath that curves along the harbor. The fall wind is wet and mean, but I walk slowly, letting the sea spray hit my face. I try to exhale the conversation, but bits of it stick.

Is it so obvious?

If it is, then it’s a recent development. I’ve been careful, damn it. I’ve been nothing but careful since the day I decided never to fall for anyone again. I don’t let people get close, and if they do, I push them away with the practiced cruelty of an expert. It’s for their own good, I tell myself. My affection is more dangerous than my teeth.

But Daisy is different.

She knows exactly what I am, and in that knowing, she finds reasons to stay. She brings food but never expects me to eat in her company. She sits with me over coffee and asks questions, never once mocking the answers. She is the rare sort of person who doesn’t want to fix what’s broken in you—she just wants to see if it might bloom in the right light.

I shiver, more from memory than cold, and start the slog back uphill.

By the time I reach the base of the old stairs leading up to my lighthouse, the sky is the color of wet slate. Behind me, the harbor ripples with wind and the city is already half-lit. My forearms ache with tension because I know when I open my door, there will be a package on the stoop. Daisy always leaves it in the exact center of the welcome mat, so I have to acknowledge it before I go inside.

It’s a small thing, the way she persists. The way she remakes disappointment into a fresh attempt. If I were braver, I would admire it out loud.

Instead, I toe the box inside and set it, unopened, on the kitchen counter. I stand a moment, hands braced on either side of the sink, and let the fatigue roll through me. I could break the routine, just once. I could call her, say thank you. Or more. I could ask her to come over, not for a delivery or an errand, but for herself.

The thought is terrifying.

When was the last time I tried to court someone? Not since Miriam, the psychic who made me feel transparent in every possible way, a woman who knew my intentions before I did. In the end, we weren’t compatible, but that’s a hard act to follow. She did all the heavy lifting by making the first move.

I stare out my kitchen window at the endless gray horizon and try to imagine what normal men do: Do they send flowers? Chocolates? Chivalric poems in archaic script? Since when have I been “normal,” and what is the modern equivalent? A meme? A playlist? A text message with a single, contextless emoji?

I laugh, admit defeat, and open the box.

Inside are sour cherry tarts, still warm. How does she do this?

A note is folded beneath the tray:

“If you’re running experiments late, save one for breakfast. They’re even better cold. —D.”

I eat one standing over the sink. Sweet, tart, complicated. It tastes like a dare.

I make a decision. Maybe a small one, but it’s still a deviation.

I find my phone and pull up her contact. I stare at the blank message box so long the screen winks out twice, and I have to unlock it with my thumbprint.

I type:

Come by tomorrow. It’s not urgent, but I could use some advice on the new planting beds. We can test your hypothesis about cold tart.

I hesitate, then add:

Warm is overrated. —E

It’s a risk. It’s not a grand gesture, but it’s not nothing.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit send.

Outside, the wind batters the window in rhythmic gusts, like the slow drum of a heart learning a new beat.

I imagine her laughing, the way her nose wrinkles when she’s pleased with herself. I imagine her showing up, rain or shine, and pretending she just happened to be nearby.