Page 11 of Infernal Affairs

“I mean, you’re popular as hell in this town and you never talk about yourself. It’s always everybody else’s problems.”

He points a finger at me.

“Maybe you should try something for yourself once in a while.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” I say, smoothing the notebook with one palm.

“Seriously. Try a dance class sometime.”

His gaze drops slyly to my midsection.

Which, if I’m being honest, is looking—let’s call it softer—lately.

“The movement would do you good.”

I stand, which is my preferred way of ending a session.

Thankfully, he takes the hint.

We clasp forearms at the door, an old-school gesture from when we were both on better terms with our animal natures.

After Atlas leaves, I collapse onto the edge of my desk and stare at the wall.

The office still smells faintly of honey and cinnamon from the pastries Daisy brought last week.

I notice it every time I stop moving long enough to notice anything.

I type up the session notes, but my mind drifts.

I’m not immune to the loneliness that runs rampant through this town, the way it clings even to the most contented souls and dares them to admit it.

I tell myself I have enough.

Routine.

Purpose.

Comfort.

But Daisy’s bakery is becoming a gravitational force in my week, drawing me out even when I have no practical reason to leave the office.

I run a hand over my horns—the left one still slightly crooked from a long-ago brawl—and consider my reflection in the black glass of the computer monitor.

If I’m honest, Atlas is right.

I’m softer.

And I’m tired of being careful, tired of believing the best thing I can do for people is exist just out of reach.

My next patient is already pacing in the hallway, her reflection ghosting through the frosted glass like a rumor.

I take a deep breath, smile, and beckon her inside.

But between the words of her story, I’m thinking about a box of pastries, a girl with flour on her cheek, and the possibility that the future is less a list of rules to follow and more a recipe to tinker with.

Maybe, for once, I’ll let something rise without interference.

I end the day like I always do, with a slow walk through town, the sun already burning out behind the bay and the wind crisp enough to sting.