Page 24 of Infernal Affairs

He offers me a spoonful. It’s briny, rich, almost sweet, with a strange undercurrent of something I can only describe as deep-sea electricity.

We pass bites back and forth, testing, trading commentary, rating sauces and plating, making enemies of the surrounding tables with our shameless delight.

At one point, a couple slides into the booth behind Enoch, and I can immediately tell they’re from Thistlebrook. The woman leans forward, barely lowering her voice. “I didn’t know they let monsters in here now.”

Enoch glances at me, the tiniest of frowns. I brace myself, ready to fight, but he only raises his glass, salutes the air, and says,

“We do tip well, though.”

The woman splutters. Her date is openly fascinated.

I can’t help it. I reach out, my hand curling around Enoch’s where it rests on the table. His fingers are long, warm, a promise of strength. He looks down at our hands, then back up at me, and for a wild second, I think—hope—he’s going to kiss me right here, in front of everyone.

Instead, he squeezes gently and moves his thumb in a slow circle over my knuckle, and it feels like electricity, but in a safe, home-circuit kind of way.

Our server returns with the dessert menu, and I hear myself say, “We’ll take the sampler, please,” and the words are heavy with context.

Enoch grins, actual teeth this time, and I feel dizzy with anticipation.

We linger over dessert, picking apart a mosaic of sweets: coral-pink mousse, a tart made with something called witch’s berry, a spicy dark chocolate that leaves my lips tingling long after.

When the check comes, Enoch pays, brushing aside my halfhearted protest.

“It’s only fair,” he says, gathering his coat. “You provided the experiment.”

I’m still thinking about the blue flame, the sweetness of mousse on his tongue, and the way we must have looked—the town’s own punchline, demon and baker, eating like royalty—when we step out onto the glittering shore.

The wind bites sharper, carrying the salt and the possibility of snow, and I shiver.

He notices. Of course, he does. “Would you like me to walk you home?” he asks, as if I might say no.

“Please,” I say, my voice suddenly small beneath the sky.

We walk the first block in silence, shoulders occasionally bumping. There’s a warmth radiating off him, not quite supernatural, but certainly more than human. My head feels light. My heart is... well, occupied.

I break first. “So—was it up to your standards? The food?”

He stops walking, just for the span of a breath. “You want the honest answer?”

“Always.”

He glances sidelong at me, looking almost shy. “I haven’t eaten this well, or felt this good, in... too long to measure.”

He swallows, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I have memories, but none of them feel as real as right now.”

He gives me this look—open, unsure—and for the first time, I realize how little practice he’s had, really, at putting down his guard. For a being whose entire job is understanding others, it must be a kind of vertigo to be this exposed.

“Thank you, Enoch,” I say, meaning it in about seventeen different ways.

He bows his head, graceful. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

We reach my bakery, the streetlamp whitening the sidewalk and pooling light over the blacked-out window. I stop, heart pounding. He stops too, and I think: what now? Will he say goodnight? Shake my hand?

Instead, he says, “Daisy. I won’t pretend I have any idea what I’m doing in this particular realm.”

I smile. “Dating?”

“Yes. Or... pursuing whatever this is.” He breaks off, searching. “I’m so used to being a neutral party that it’s⁠—”