Page 35 of Infernal Affairs

Perhaps the universe has simply overestimated how difficult I am to break.

In that moment, I forget the centuries, the scars, the endless chess match I've played with fate and responsibility. I know only Daisy, standing before me in that blue dress, close enough that I can make out the tiny constellation of freckles scattered across her collarbone.

So I kiss her.

How else could the evening end?

Daisy's mouth is a question I've been longing to answer, and the way she meets me—warm, delighted, drawing me closer as though I'd somehow become her favorite discovery—makes something inside me quietly come undone.

When she laughs against my lips, I feel it all the way down to my bones.

Eventually we separate just far enough to breathe.

“You are trouble,” she murmurs, her forehead resting against mine.

“Trouble is my only marketable skill,” I whisper back. “May I kiss you again?”

The question is barely finished before I lean in once more.

Time becomes wonderfully unreliable. Minutes dissolve into laughter and stolen kisses until I become vaguely aware that Daisy's lipstick has migrated somewhere onto my face. She notices too, smiles to herself, and makes no effort whatsoever to fix it.

Her hands slide to either side of my neck, thumbs resting lightly beneath my jaw, and for one ridiculous moment I wonder which of us is going to melt first.

Eventually—whether after minutes or hours, I'm honestly not sure—we drift back toward the little table where dinner waits exactly as we'd left it, looking almost like evidence from someone else's evening.

We make a valiant attempt at behaving like civilized adults.

Neither of us is particularly convincing.

Every few moments her foot brushes mine beneath the table, or our knees bump together, or we catch one another smiling over our wineglasses for no reason beyond the fact that we're both still here.

She raises her glass again.

“To us,” she says. “To bravery, poor judgment, and whatever you call this.”

I touch my glass gently against hers.

“To statistical improbabilities,” I reply, “and culinary risk-taking.”

Dinner is extraordinary.

Or perhaps Daisy has simply ruined my ability to judge food objectively.

Either way, everything tastes wonderful.

She catches me watching her again.

“You can't possibly be this hungry,” she says softly. “For the food, I mean.”

I consider pretending not to understand.

Instead I say, “I've been told I possess a rather formidable appetite.”

She points her fork at me.

“Flirting is supposed to be subtle.”

“That was subtle.”