Page 33 of Infernal Affairs

Her apartment sits above one of the old storefronts just off Main Street, only a short walk from the bakery. A narrow flight of stairs leads to the front door, each step creaking with the accumulated weight of a century's worth of tenants. I can hear her on the other side before I even knock. There's a frantic shuffle, something plastic clattering against the tile, a hissed, "Dammit," and then, after a pause, a long exhale.

The door cracks open.

Daisy peers out wearing an expression of studied nonchalance, one immediately betrayed by the tiny curl of her mouth and the faint lift of her eyebrows.

"Enoch," she says. "You made it."

She's barefoot, wearing a blue dress beneath an oversized apron, her hair loose around her shoulders. It isn't so much a waterfall as a tidal force. In the hallway light, the color shifts into a different shade of gold entirely, something warm and luminous that only mortals seem capable of producing.

"Of course," I reply, only to discover I have absolutely no clever follow-up prepared. "You look...very nice."

I hate myself for the banality of it, for the inadequacy. Daisy, however, seems to find it charming. She beams, swings the door open the rest of the way, and waves me inside.

The apartment is organized chaos: shelves where books compete with baking supplies for space, tiny succulents squeezed between stacks of magazines held together by melted candle wax, and a faint, ever-present haze of flour that makes the sunset streaming through the windows seem almost alive. A table barely large enough for two has already been set with mismatched plates, cloth napkins, and a bottle of white wine sweating quietly into its own glass.

Before I can say a word, Daisy uncorks the bottle, pours me a glass, and offers it with one arched eyebrow.

"You don't have to drink," she says, "but I thought it might help with..." She gestures vaguely. "...the evening."

I glance at the wine, then at her, and accept the glass before following her onto the tiny balcony overlooking the street.

The evening air smells of honeysuckle and distant rain. Somewhere below, people carry on conversations over the rumble of traffic, and the ordinary sounds of the neighborhood somehow make everything happening between us feel even more intimate. Daisy settles into the chair across from me, brushes her hair behind one ear with an easy, practiced motion, and waits.

"How was your day?" she asks. The question sounds casual enough, but her posture is just a little too straight, her fingers wrapped a little too tightly around her own glass.

I could tell her about the paperwork piling up at Town Hall or the coworker attempting to unionize the local fallen angels for what must be the third time this year.

Instead, I tell her the truth.

"I was looking forward to this."

Then, because honesty only gets me so far before instinct forces me sideways, I add, "You have a lovely balcony. It's very...you."

She snorts.

"Small and slightly falling apart?"

"Vital," I correct. "Sturdier than it looks. And the view is better than expected."

She hides her smile behind the rim of her wineglass, though her eyes never leave mine. I can't quite decipher the expression looking back at me. It's gratitude wrapped around amusement with just enough mischief to make the tips of my ears blanch nearly white. I catch my reflection in the window beside us and confirm my suspicions.

Wonderful.

Dinner arrives a few minutes later. Daisy sets down a platter of roast, potatoes, and something aggressively green that humanity appears to have invented for the sole purpose of tormenting my species. I am not technically required to eat, but sharing a meal has never really been about survival. It is ceremony. Communion. An acknowledgment that someone wanted you at their table.

As she serves me, her fingers brush my wrist, and I can feel the quick flutter of her pulse through the china between us. The contact lasts only a heartbeat, but somehow the entire evening seems to gather around it, both of us aware of something growing between us while carefully refusing to give it a name.

She unties her apron and hangs it over the back of her chair, leaving the blue dress to do all the heavy lifting.

I remember Zelda's advice—stare at her until she blushes—but Daisy is infinitely better at this than I am. Moonlight spills across the balcony, tinting her skin a color I don't possess a word for. Her lips catch the light whenever she smiles.

I discover, quite suddenly, that I cannot stop looking at them.

The first few bites pass in a strange, exhilarating silence.

Daisy lifts her glass first.

"To being brave enough to eat my cooking," she says, "and to people who don't vanish at the first sign of commitment."