Page 19 of Infernal Affairs

“You want to look like you accidentally fell out of bed perfect and then made it look better,” she supplies, getting up to rummage in a drawer.

“Yes. But also, I need to win the war against his control.”

Clover’s fingers close on a small black box. She sets it before me with a conspiratorial wink.

“This,” she says, cracking the lid to reveal a row of delicate glass vials, “is everything you’ll need.”

I lean in. One vial is filled with something pink and syrupy; another glimmers greenly, like a melted gemstone; a third is packed with a powder so fine it seems to move in slow motion.

“Are any of these... legal?” I ask.

“Not exactly.” She squints, mulling the phrase. “It won’t force anyone to say what they’re hiding, but it does make it harder to look away from the truth. If you want to know if the demon in question is attracted to you, apply behind both ears—preferably after showering. It can be... illuminating.”

Something fizzes down my spine. Not unpleasant, just... more. Like a cold shower after a sleepless night. For a moment, I feel every nerve ending, every ounce of hope and dread alive and sparking under my skin. Then the sensation settles, leaving me wondering if Clover sold me a bottle of expensive-smelling anxiety.

He gestures to the counter, where two coffee mugs sit already half-filled, and a folder of paperwork sprawls open, waiting for me. I set down the tarts, arching a brow for effect.

“You called me over for a business meeting?”

He blinks again, those eyes betraying just a flash of panic before he covers it with a lopsided smile.

“I may have exaggerated the urgency of the planting beds.”

“Mm. I’ll invoice you for my time,” I say, leaning in.

The air between us hums. His arms flex as he reaches past me for a mug, and for the first time since I met him, Enoch looks almost unsettled.

He hands it over. I take a sip and try not to combust when his fingers graze mine.

There’s a silence, not uncomfortable, but thick with all the words neither of us will let out.

He steps back, looking a little shell-shocked, and I see it: that flush creeping in from the collar of his sweater, up the line of his neck, painting his cheeks a color so bold it has to be real. His hands are steady, but only just. He rubs the back of his neck as if trying to ground himself.

“Daisy,” he says, my name like a fragile spell.

“What?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

For one absurd second, I think he might actually be nervous.

“Nothing,” he says.

Which is when I know something is very, very wrong.

I take a cautious step closer.

“Enoch?”

He looks at me—really looks at me—and whatever fragile control he’s been clinging to finally slips.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, his voice lower and rougher than usual, “I’ve been trying very hard not to say that.”

My pulse stumbles.

“Say what?”

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.