Page 5 of Infernal Affairs

DAISY

The bells over the bakery door clang as if I’ve kicked them on my way in. I probably have. The wind always follows me, trailing flour and a whiff of late-October ozone into the warm, sticky air of Hex & Honey.

Clover doesn’t look up from her bench, though, and that’s how I know she’s actually concentrating. Most days, she’s the first to bark a greeting over her shoulder, even if her hands are wrist-deep in dough. Today, her dark hair is looped in a precarious bun, and her brow is set in a frown of such surgical precision that it would be overkill to interrupt.

I drop the pastries into the display, sweep the counter with my forearm, and sneak a glance at the wedding cake she’s assembling.

Five tiers. Half finished. Smeared in buttercream so precisely I’m embarrassed by my own attempts.

Anxious to help out, I scrub my hands harder than necessary, trying to chase away the lingering warmth of Enoch’s smile—and the undertow of something that lingers with it.

“Did he like them?”

Clover doesn’t look up when she asks. She keeps her eyes on the cake, but there’s something careful in the way she waits for my answer.

“He did,” I say. “He ate three. I think he inhaled the last one.”

I keep my tone light, but my mind keeps returning to little details: the crumpled parchment paper, the bent spatula, the tea towel with a smear of deep-purple jam. I catalog my world in details, always have. Maybe that’s why I noticed the slight tremor in Enoch’s hands, the way he watched me as if I might vanish if he blinked.

Clover pipes another perfect rosette and finally glances up.

“Did he say he understood why I had to cancel? I hate being so flaky.”

I shake my head, elbow-deep in a bowl of honeyed dough.

“No. But he did say thank you. And he invited me to stay for cookies.”

I hesitate.

“He’s... different than I expected.”

I picture the careful way he folded the bakery box, how he lined up the lid with the crease just so. Not monstrous. Not even cold. If anything, he reminds me of the old clock in the bakery: always ticking, never quite at rest, and more likely to break if left without a caretaker.

Clover sighs and wipes her hands on her apron.

“He’s lonely. Not that he’d ever admit it.”

She flexes her fingers—scarred at the knuckles from years of kitchen battles—then gestures at the cake. I get the message and drift over, ready to fetch, roll, or steady a tier if it starts to tilt.

For a minute, it’s just the scrape of spatula against glass, the low hum of the mixer, and the soft pat of my shoes on the sticky tile.

Then Clover squints at me, the way she does when she’s about to diagnose a yeast infection in a batch of brioche.

“You’re thinking too hard,” she says.

Am I?

I try not to. Baking is my way of not thinking, a safe place where everything makes sense. The recipe’s rules are absolute, and I get to improvise only when I’ve earned it.

But today, my mind keeps looping back to Enoch’s face, the heat in my cheeks at the memory of his eyes on me, the way he said my name.

Daisy.

Like he was surprised it had a taste.

“I’m not,” I protest.

But the protest is too quick, so she raises one eyebrow, and I confess.