Page 38 of Infernal Affairs

“I love you,” she says, unceremonial, like she’s been holding it in for a million years and just now remembered it’s safe to say.

My heart, that slow-burning ember, flares so bright I’m sure it torches me from the inside out. I squeeze her tighter, press a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you too,” I say, and it’s the first true thing I’ve said in a very, very long time.

She closes her eyes, smiling in the dark.

“Tomorrow,” she mumbles, already drifting, “I want pancakes. And you, naked in the kitchen. Standard demon boyfriend duties.”

“Noted.” I stroke her hair. “I’ll bring my A-game.”

“Good,” she says, and then she’s gone, breath slowing, body relaxing against me like a sleepwalker who finally made it home.

CHAPTER 13

ENOCH

Iwake before dawn, always. My brain is a precision-engineered curse: centuries of habit, the wrong side of trauma—take your pick. Usually I surface in darkness, so quiet I can hear the city's breath through the cracked window and the old floorboards settling beneath Daisy's apartment. Today I wake to vanilla and cinnamon, warm skin, and the lingering memory of Daisy's breath against my throat.

She's here. She didn't flee in the night, or vanish into smoke, or text me that she was "busy." She's sprawled on her stomach in her queen-sized bed, her head half-buried beneath my pillow, one arm draped carelessly across my ribs. Her hair is a chocolate-brown halo, and the curve of her back beneath the sheet is the most indecently beautiful thing I've seen since a Renaissance painter tried to convince me to pose nude three hundred years ago.

I watch her sleep, unrepentant creep that I am. Her face is softer now; she never lets it fully relax when she's awake, as though the world will demand more from her the moment she lets her guard down. There's a constellation of freckles on her cheek I've never noticed before and a faint blue vein at her temple pulsing in time with the dawn. Centuries of solitary slumber trained me to curl into myself—tucked to one side, limbs folded inward, taking up as little space as possible. This morning I disturb nothing. I simply gather the feeling—her warmth, her weight, the gentle huff of her exhale—and decide I could get used to this.

The clock on her nightstand reads 5:08 a.m. Daisy is a creature of sunlight and sourdough. I suspect she'd sleep until ten if her stomach allowed it. I untangle myself from the covers as carefully as though I'm defusing a bomb and pad across the creaking hardwood into her kitchen. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet. My shirt is tangled in her sheets, so I grab a bath towel, wrap it low around my waist, and channel my inner Victorian ghost.

I make coffee automatically, grinding the beans by hand and letting the rich aroma fill the open-plan loft. The French press in her kitchen matches mine. She called it a gift-slash-caffeine intervention. Every time I use it, I hear her voice.

"Stop drinking instant. That's a hate crime."

I smirk. Daisy gets the first cup. I line up the mugs she keeps above the counter—her chipped red one and the bakery-green one with the leaf-shaped handle. The idea of her drinking coffee here again feels like wealth.

I open the refrigerator and scan the shelves, discovering she has little beyond pickles, questionable cheese, and six bottles of sparkling water. Not ideal. I'm not talented enough to make the promised pancakes from scratch, so I settle for toast. There's half a loaf of her sourdough on the counter, swaddled in a tea towel. I slice two thick pieces and drop them into the toaster. One immediately gets jammed. I mutter a prayer to nobody in particular and wrestle it free, leaving behind a blackened corner and a thin veil of smoke. Daisy would have a quip for this, and I find myself rehearsing comebacks.

When I sit at the little bistro table by the window, I'm alone again. The emptiness is familiar, but it no longer feels permanent. That realization sneaks up on me more quietly than dawn itself. I sip my coffee—fast and hot—and watch the sky brighten over Blackthorn Bay. The water is a gray-green bruise, the rocks glistening with dew. The Saturday market opens in a few hours. I could stroll over for a change of scenery, but I don't want to leave her apartment. Not without her.

She emerges around six-thirty wearing my shirt, the sleeves rolled to her forearms, the hem barely brushing the tops of her thighs. Her hair is an ungovernable mess, and there are sheet marks pressed into one cheek. She shuffles to the counter, eyes half-closed. I brace for awkwardness and find none. Instead, she leans against the marble, steals my coffee, and drinks it as though it's the last liquid on earth.

"You were a bit amazing," she mumbles.

"You weren't so bad yourself."

She shuffles toward the bathroom. I hear the faucet run, the familiar sounds of someone freshening up. A minute later she reappears, mouth minty fresh, and leans against the doorway with her arms crossed.

"You used my toothbrush."

"I did."

She tilts her head. "That's very presumptuous of you."

"Consider it a parting gift."

She arches one brow. "You kicking yourself out?"

"Never. I'm just marking the occasion."

She's awake enough to notice the toast. "Did you make breakfast?"

I point to the two abused slices on a napkin, garnished with butter and a limp swirl of honey. She sits across from me, brushes her hair out of her eyes, and inspects the toast.