Page 40 of Infernal Affairs

"That was an accident," I protest. "I sneezed and three dozen cucumbers turned into pickles."

"Still better than last year's tomato fiasco," Daisy adds.

The three of us stand there laughing, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't feel like I'm watching life through a window. Zadok gives me a look that says, It's about time.

I answer with the smallest nod.

He's right.

Clover appears near the bakery booth carrying a tray of cinnamon-sugar samples. The moment she sees us, a triumphant grin spreads across her face.

"Ha! I told you, Zadok!" she crows. "Never bet against the underdog. Pay up."

He fishes a dollar from his pocket and hands it over with theatrical resignation.

"You win. As always."

Clover beams before wrapping Daisy in a hug.

"You look radiant. Like you've been debauched all night."

Daisy giggles.

"Accurate."

Clover offers me a cinnamon roll like a welcome-to-the-family gift. I accept it, and it's so sweet I could swear I taste last night's laughter in the icing.

We wander through the rows of stalls, buying eggs, cheese, blueberries, and a bundle of daffodils. People nod or wave or simply stare, but it isn't the kind of stare that wounds. It's curiosity. Sometimes approval.

I discover I don't mind either.

When we return to Daisy's apartment, she lines our purchases across the quartz countertop. She arranges the flowers in a chipped vase, hums a tune I don't recognize, and places the honey beside the French press, where it'll tempt me every morning. She moves through the apartment as though she's always belonged here, and every new thing she leaves behind makes something bloom quietly inside my chest.

She catches me lingering in the doorway.

"Hey," she says. "Want tea?"

I nod.

She turns toward the kettle, and I watch her move through the kitchen—her wild hair, the rust-colored sweater, the daffodils already brightening the windowsill, the honey she'd instinctively given a permanent place on the counter. After a moment she glances over her shoulder, just to make sure I'm still there.

I am.

I will be.

I'd haunt this kitchen doorway for centuries if she'd let me.

She smiles without turning all the way around.

"You know," she says, "you're allowed to come in."

"I know."

I smile.

"I just like the view from here."

"Good," she says, reaching for the kettle. "Because I was hoping you'd stop standing in the doorway and start leaving things here."