4. Daisy
DAISY
If I’d known what kind of day it would be, I would have picked a different sweater.
Not the mohair one that leaves pink lint on everything, practically screaming desperation, but something more subtle—maybe the gray one with faint blue flecks, the one that feels like a sky about to crack open.
Instead, here I am, sweating beneath two layers and a municipal-issued rain poncho, cradling a cardboard box with both hands and trying to look casual as I hike up the spit to the lighthouse.
Clover’s parting words still ring in my ears.
“If you show up after six, he’s obligated to invite you in. It’s lighthouse etiquette.”
She hands off the box with a wink and goes back to stacking chairs, pretending she’s not matchmaking.
I knew what she was doing.
I let her anyway.
It’s not that I expect anything, exactly. I’m not even sure what I want from Enoch other than... what?
The slow-burning way he looks at me. His voice, all calm and steady.
The rare moments when he actually laughs and the shape of his mouth shifts like he’s unpracticed.
The feeling that, in a world of grand gestures, he notices the smallest things—how I tie my apron, the way I grind sugar for Linzer tarts, how sometimes, when I’m tired, I forget to smile and he never calls me out for it.
It’s not love.
Or maybe it’s not only love.
It’s something quieter than that, something that hasn’t decided what it is yet.
I just want him to know I exist outside the bakery.
That’s a reasonable thing to want.
The winding path is slick with saltwater spray. The air tastes pure and metallic, like a kitchen knife freshly sharpened. Every step up the cliff makes the lighthouse loom larger, less a scenic town emblem and more like a colossal tombstone.
All the windows are dark, but a faint light glows from the slit at the very top.
I slow at the door, my heart hammering like a loose hinge in the wind.
The brass knocker is shaped like a fish. Clover says it’s a salmon, but I’m pretty sure it’s a sturgeon—big dumb lips and a vacant stare.
It feels right to knock, though.
Even if you know someone’s home, you honor the threshold.
I’m bracing for a wait—Enoch is the kind of guy who moves at the speed of tectonic plates—but the door swings open after the very first tap.
He looks somehow taller in his own space.
The hallway is narrow, lined with books piled in stacks along the edges.
I resist the urge to adjust my ponytail, but he notices anyway.
It’s one of his things.
“Good evening, Daisy,” he says, low and warm as always, but there’s surprise there too. Not the unwelcome kind. “Delivery for the night watch?”
I hold up the box, the top already softened with damp.
“You left your cookie punch card at the bakery,” I improvise. “Couldn’t let you forfeit your free dozen.”
“It’s a conspiracy,” he deadpans. “Come in. It’s colder than expected.”
There’s a moment when I’m sure he regrets saying it—hospitality does not come naturally to Enoch—but instead he steps back and gestures with an old-fashioned flourish, like a stage magician inviting me into a cabinet.
Inside, it’s different than I pictured.
Less lair, more long-term sublet.
The entryway is functional and tidy, but after two steps the whole place opens up into ceilings that stagger higher than I’d ever imagined.
The living room—a half circle of windows facing out to sea—holds a battered sofa, a coffee table made from a slab of granite, and exactly one armchair.
The armchair is big.
Bigger than any human would need.
There are no photos. No keepsakes. Not even a coat rack, just a single peg for his long, dark overcoat.
He follows my gaze and shrugs.
“I don’t hang things on walls.”
He says it like that explains everything.
Maybe it does.
He leads me to the kitchen nook, which is a loose term for a counter, a battered espresso machine, and a refrigerator so clean I suspect he’s never used it for anything but cream and the occasional six-pack.
Enoch gestures toward the end of the counter.
“Mind the knife.”
Sure enough, there’s a wicked little knife with a bone handle. Next to it sits a chipped coffee mug with the words I Kissed a Ghoul and All I Got Was This Mug faded from a hundred dishwasher cycles.
I couldn’t have planned it better. I want to blurt something clever, but instead I crack open the pastry box, arranging the contents so the best ones are on top.
“Clover and I spent the afternoon fighting over which ones you’d like most,” I say, though it’s not the truth.
I spent the afternoon obsessing over which ones I like most, then trying to guess what that says about me.
He inspects the contents, all focus.
“They’re warm,” he muses, approving. “How did you—”
“There are tricks,” I say. “Microwave on half power, lined with a damp paper towel. But that’s a trade secret, so you owe me.”
He smiles. I mean, really smiles. Not the therapist’s half-smirk, but a dawning amusement that makes me wish I did this sort of thing every night.
He slides the box closer, selects the darkest, sugariest one, and waits for me to join.
I think he’s testing whether I’ll reach for the same one.
I don’t. I pick the one with apricot glaze, because it’s messy and I want to see what he does when I get sticky sugar on my lips.
He’s still looking at me—not the way people look when they want something, but like he’s searching for a puzzle piece. I start to feel self-conscious, so I grab his mug and take a sniff. “Is this safe?”
He fills it with coffee before I can protest, and pours some into a glass for himself. It’s black and smells like cedar, with a richer undertone underneath.
He leans against the counter, bracing himself with one hand, and takes a measured bite. “Best part of my day,” he says, not joking.
“Flattery,” I accuse, but it comes out breathless. I chew slowly, consider something, then ask: “Is it quieter here, at night?”
He glances past me, out the tall windows toward the sea. There’s a long pause. “I thought it would be. At first, I thought the whole point was to get away from everything, but the wind up here never stops. It’s just a different kind of noise.”
That makes sense, more than I want to admit. I know about the illusion of quiet, how silence can be just a hiding place for old anxieties. “I would’ve thought it was peaceful,” I say, then softer, “Guess not.”
He puts down his bun, wipes his hands meticulously, and considers me again. “You ever been lonely?” he asks—not like he expects an answer, but he looks up, waiting for one.
“I work in a bakery,” I say, which is supposed to be funny, but it comes out small. “You can be surrounded by people all day and never have an actual conversation.” I mean it as a joke. It just sits there.
He nods like he understands. Maybe he does.
The pause pulls longer, enough that I lose my nerve and scan the room again. “So, uh, how do you end up living in a lighthouse? Was it a job listing, or is there a secret monster realtor?”
“A bit of both. Zadok found it. Said if I was going to be mopey, I should do it somewhere dramatic.”
I laugh. “That sounds exactly like Zadok.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Something flickers across his face, fond and faintly exasperated. “My brother has never met a situation he couldn't improve through excessive theatrics.”
“Does he visit?”
“Constantly,” Enoch says. “He claims he's checking on me. I suspect he's making sure I haven't become a hermit.”
It’s a strange thing, realizing I’ve never asked about his family. Everyone else in town wants Enoch to be their confidant, their fixer, their sounding board. Nobody ever seems to ask about him. I wonder if he notices. Or minds.
“Does he visit?” I ask, softer this time.
“Rarely. He doesn’t like the cold.” He pours more coffee; the gesture is oddly ceremonial. “I think he’s waiting to see if I make something of myself out here.”
I want to say he already has, that everyone in Blackthorn Bay thinks Enoch hung the moon, but it feels like a cheap compliment. Instead, I just let silence stretch, the kind that feels safe and unhurried.
It’s so quiet I can hear the lighthouse workings overhead, a deep mechanical sigh as something shifts in the lantern room. Enoch notices me listening. “It keeps its own schedule,” he explains. “Every four hours, no matter what.”
“Is that why you like it?” I ask. “The predictability?”
He tilts his head, thinking. “Maybe. Or maybe I hoped putting some distance between myself and the rest of the world would help me…recalibrate.” He studies my face then, searching for something I am not even sure I’m hiding.
“I think you’re the least recalibrated person I know,” I blurt, then immediately wish I could stuff the words back in my mouth.
He laughs, and the sound is so unexpected that I feel it like a body blow. “You might be right,” he says.
We eat in companionable silence for a while.
Eventually, I start to feel a little lightheaded—not from the sugar, but the closeness, the awareness that he’s letting me see corners of his life most people never glimpse.
I think about what Clover said: how Enoch never invites anyone past the front hall.
My hands are sticky. I go to rinse them in the kitchen sink, and he follows, leaning against the doorway. “You’re a good sport,” he says. “Most people would’ve turned back when the path got slick.”
It’s as close to an admission as I’ll get.
“I’ve never been accused of being a coward,” I say.
He grabs a dishtowel and hands it to me, careful not to touch my hands, but it’s almost a touch anyway. The tension is palpable, but gentle. We stand there, neither knowing what to do next.
Enoch clears his throat. “I wouldn’t mind if you stopped by again. If you wanted to, I mean.”
He’s so bad at this. It makes my whole chest feel tight.
“If you’re not careful,” I say, “I’ll bring a whole tray next time. And a lecture about why you should be eating more vegetables.”
He looks at me, very seriously, and says, “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
I smile, for real this time, and it feels like something has shifted: not a dramatic tectonic snap, but a subtle, seismic sway. The kind of change you only notice if you’re paying attention.
I gather my raincoat and step into the soggy night. The wind isn’t so sharp anymore. I dare a glance over my shoulder and see Enoch standing in the entryway, backlit like an old painting, watching until I’m halfway down the path.
Not a date, I think.
Worse.
A standing invitation.
He’ll never know how much I wanted it. Or maybe he already does.