Page 34 of Infernal Affairs

We clink glasses.

She drains hers in one swallow. I take mine more slowly, though I suspect I'm paying considerably more attention to the curve of her mouth than the wine itself.

Somewhere in the building, a neighbor is playing pop music with the treble turned so high it splinters against the night air. I barely hear it.

Daisy is here.

I'm here.

Sometimes I forget that eternity is built from moments exactly like this—small, ordinary moments that somehow manage to feel fiercely alive.

She laughs suddenly, as though interrupted by a thought halfway through dinner.

"You're staring."

"I am."

"Do I have sauce on my face?"

"Not even a little."

The words leave me before I can examine them.

"You look perfect."

The compliment sounds hopelessly inadequate to my own ears, but Daisy hears something beneath it anyway. I watch her shoulders relax, the guarded uncertainty melting away almost instantly.

Perhaps it's the wine.

Perhaps it's the moonlight.

Perhaps it's simply Daisy.

Whatever the cause, I reach across the table and take her hand in mine.

“You sure you're not nervous?” she whispers, her voice almost musical. “Your ears are giving you away.”

I feel the flush intensify. “I am not, as a rule, easily rattled,” I say. “But you are...difficult to ignore. Compelling,” I add, because she deserves clarity. “It's all very new for me.”

Daisy runs her thumb slowly over my knuckles. “You talk like you're older than the sun,” she says, “but this is just dinner. It doesn't have to be the end of the world.”

“Maybe I want it to be cosmic.”

She doesn't laugh. Instead, she studies my face as though she's searching for something I'd misplaced long ago.

I think she finds it.

When she stands, there's the slightest wobble in her step, equal parts theater, wine, and anticipation. She tugs gently on my hand, and I follow her inside, where the apartment is lit only by a half-melted pillar candle on the table and the soft blue glow of the microwave clock.

She turns to face me.

Only then do I realize I've been waiting for permission.

Daisy knows it too. She's always been better at reading me than I am at reading myself.

“Enoch,” she says, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “If you want to kiss me, you should probably do it now. I have a feeling I'm going to burn dessert if you don't.”

Perhaps my self-control has earned its reputation.