Page 25 of Infernal Affairs

He exhales. “I want to get it right. But I probably won’t. Not always.”

Under the old neon sign, it should feel awkward, maybe, but it doesn’t.

I understand. “I don’t need perfection. Just honesty.”

He blinks, almost startled. “I can do that.”

My hands are cold, but I don’t care. I reach for him, and we are nose-to-nose, and for a moment neither of us speaks. His breath is warm, with a hint of cinnamon and something darker lingering beneath it.

I kiss him.

Because this time, there’s nothing in the way—no magic, no bakery counter, no excuses. Just us on a salt-lit street, the snow beginning to dust our hair.

It’s not fireworks. It’s not even chemical euphoria. It’s just... safe. And, okay, a little bit thrilling.

He pulls back, blinking. “Should I call you tomorrow?”

I laugh, my head tipping back. “You’d better.”

“Goodnight, Daisy Flowers.”

“Goodnight, Enoch.”

I watch him walk away, coat flapping, horns catching the wind, and I am warm all the way to my toes.

The only regret is that tomorrow is a full twenty-four hours away. But that’s okay. Because now I know the recipe: a pinch of awkward, a dash of danger, and enough sweet to drown the rest of the world out.

I can’t wait to try it again.

CHAPTER 9

ENOCH

There’s a peculiar gravity to familial obligation, and tonight I feel every microtremor as Daisy and I approach her parents’ house. Thistlebrook’s old neighborhoods are all honey-brick and ornamental iron, tidy lawns glowingly compliant with local covenants. I hold the bakery box like an offering, which I suppose it is, though the cinnamon swans inside are still cooling. Daisy’s hand finds my forearm, her touch featherlight, but the way she threads her fingers through my sleeve says, Don’t you dare leave me alone in here.

She laughs nervously as we reach the stoop. “Promise if things go nuclear, you’ll abduct me and we’ll change our names?”

“I know a guy who prints passports,” I say, and she makes a grateful noise in her throat before ringing the bell.

The Flowers family presents itself behind the front door with the resolute cordiality of people about to interview the first extraterrestrial they’ve ever encountered. Mr. Flowers, with his flannel vest and gray-mustached smile, shakes my hand firmly enough to signal that, if it came down to arm-wrestling, he’d give it a go. Mrs. Flowers, more birdlike than her daughter, but with the same brand of brave smile, ushers us in, her eyes flicking to my horns, back to my face, then resolutely away.

Daisy’s sister, Violet, is already perched at the dining table: rigid posture, severe bun, a cardigan so pale blue it’s almost spectral. She stares at me as if I’m simultaneously a celebrity and an emergency.

“Everyone,” Daisy says, launching into hostess autopilot, “this is Enoch. Enoch, these are my parents, and that’s Violet⁠—”

“Charmed,” I offer, because I sense Violet was not expecting me to possess language, let alone a professional handshake.

Daisy’s mother recovers first. “Would you two like something to drink? We have ale, white wine, and herbal tea⁠—”

“Ale,” Mr. Flowers says immediately. “Real men drink ale.” Then he turns to me conspiratorially.

“Ale sounds perfect, thank you,” I answer, and Mrs. Flowers scurries toward the kitchen, her slippers almost silent on the parquet.

Daisy stands beside me, radiating so much kinetic energy I almost reach for her hand myself. I settle instead for placing the bakery box on the dining table, and Violet eyes it like a live grenade.

“Is that from the bakery?” she asks with a sneer.

“It is.” I open the box, letting the aroma of warm sugar and spice drift into the room.