13. Enoch
ENOCH
Iwake before dawn, always. My brain is a precision-engineered curse: centuries of habit, the wrong side of trauma—take your pick.
Usually I surface in darkness, so quiet I can hear the city's breath through the cracked window and the old floorboards settling beneath Daisy's apartment.
Today I wake to vanilla and cinnamon, warm skin, and the lingering memory of Daisy's breath against my throat.
She's here. She didn't flee in the night, or vanish into smoke, or text me that she was "busy.
" She's sprawled on her stomach in her queen-sized bed, her head half-buried beneath my pillow, one arm draped carelessly across my ribs.
Her hair is a chocolate-brown halo, and the curve of her back beneath the sheet is the most indecently beautiful thing I've seen since a Renaissance painter tried to convince me to pose nude three hundred years ago.
I watch her sleep, unrepentant creep that I am.
Her face is softer now; she never lets it fully relax when she's awake, as though the world will demand more from her the moment she lets her guard down.
There's a constellation of freckles on her cheek I've never noticed before and a faint blue vein at her temple pulsing in time with the dawn.
Centuries of solitary slumber trained me to curl into myself—tucked to one side, limbs folded inward, taking up as little space as possible.
This morning I disturb nothing. I simply gather the feeling—her warmth, her weight, the gentle huff of her exhale—and decide I could get used to this.
The clock on her nightstand reads 5:08 a.m. Daisy is a creature of sunlight and sourdough.
I suspect she'd sleep until ten if her stomach allowed it.
I untangle myself from the covers as carefully as though I'm defusing a bomb and pad across the creaking hardwood into her kitchen.
The floor is cool beneath my bare feet. My shirt is tangled in her sheets, so I grab a bath towel, wrap it low around my waist, and channel my inner Victorian ghost.
I make coffee automatically, grinding the beans by hand and letting the rich aroma fill the open-plan loft. The French press in her kitchen matches mine. She called it a gift-slash-caffeine intervention. Every time I use it, I hear her voice.
"Stop drinking instant. That's a hate crime."
I smirk. Daisy gets the first cup. I line up the mugs she keeps above the counter—her chipped red one and the bakery-green one with the leaf-shaped handle. The idea of her drinking coffee here again feels like wealth.
I open the refrigerator and scan the shelves, discovering she has little beyond pickles, questionable cheese, and six bottles of sparkling water.
Not ideal. I'm not talented enough to make the promised pancakes from scratch, so I settle for toast. There's half a loaf of her sourdough on the counter, swaddled in a tea towel.
I slice two thick pieces and drop them into the toaster.
One immediately gets jammed. I mutter a prayer to nobody in particular and wrestle it free, leaving behind a blackened corner and a thin veil of smoke.
Daisy would have a quip for this, and I find myself rehearsing comebacks.
When I sit at the little bistro table by the window, I'm alone again.
The emptiness is familiar, but it no longer feels permanent.
That realization sneaks up on me more quietly than dawn itself.
I sip my coffee—fast and hot—and watch the sky brighten over Blackthorn Bay.
The water is a gray-green bruise, the rocks glistening with dew.
The Saturday market opens in a few hours.
I could stroll over for a change of scenery, but I don't want to leave her apartment. Not without her.
She emerges around six-thirty wearing my shirt, the sleeves rolled to her forearms, the hem barely brushing the tops of her thighs.
Her hair is an ungovernable mess, and there are sheet marks pressed into one cheek.
She shuffles to the counter, eyes half-closed.
I brace for awkwardness and find none. Instead, she leans against the marble, steals my coffee, and drinks it as though it's the last liquid on earth.
"You were a bit amazing," she mumbles.
"You weren't so bad yourself."
She shuffles toward the bathroom. I hear the faucet run, the familiar sounds of someone freshening up. A minute later she reappears, mouth minty fresh, and leans against the doorway with her arms crossed.
"You used my toothbrush."
"I did."
She tilts her head. "That's very presumptuous of you."
"Consider it a parting gift."
She arches one brow. "You kicking yourself out?"
"Never. I'm just marking the occasion."
She's awake enough to notice the toast. "Did you make breakfast?"
I point to the two abused slices on a napkin, garnished with butter and a limp swirl of honey. She sits across from me, brushes her hair out of her eyes, and inspects the toast.
"Is this...artisanal?" she asks.
"It is," I say. "I call it Toast Surprise. The surprise is that it's just toast."
She snorts and takes a bite. Honey oozes everywhere. She licks her thumb, then mine, just to watch me flinch.
"I grew up watching the movies," she says around a mouthful, "where the guy makes a big fancy breakfast—pancakes, eggs, the works—and the girl is always stunned."
"Do you want pancakes?" I ask, meaning it. I'd burn down every kitchen in town if she said yes.
She shakes her head.
"I want this—you looking at me like you still can't believe we're here together."
She's caught me.
I drop my gaze.
"I can't," I whisper, and it's the truth.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment.
Then Daisy sets down the toast, brushes the crumbs from her fingers, and slips into my lap.
I wrap my arms around her automatically, holding her against me and wondering if this is what humans mean when they talk about settling down.
I want to ask her to move in with me—really move in—but somehow that feels more terrifying than anything we shared last night.
It feels absurd to hesitate after everything we've already shared, yet asking someone to stay forever is somehow the most frightening thing of all.
Instead, I say, "The market opens at eight."
She perks up. "Oh, hell yes. Clover should be there. Or Zadok...if he's not still banned from the produce tent."
"He's banned from every tent, as far as I know. He can't control himself around food."
"We should go," she says, shifting until she's straddling me. "Pick up some real food. Show off our matching hickeys."
She leans in for a kiss, slow and unhurried. I close my eyes, taste coffee on her tongue, and forget every other ache in the world.
She disappears into her bedroom and emerges a few minutes later in a rust-colored sweater and jeans, her hair still wild, my shirt bundled beneath one arm. She drops it into my lap as she passes the mirror by the door.
She catches me staring and does a mock twirl.
"Is this demon-chic enough for public consumption?"
"Perfect," I say. "But I'm wearing yesterday's clothes. Everyone will know I spent the night."
Daisy grins.
"That's the idea."
We walk into the heart of Blackthorn Bay just as the market is waking.
I'm more than a head taller than most people, and my horns don't exactly blend in, but for once I don't care about the stares or whispered folklore.
Daisy loops her arm through mine, swinging a wicker basket she'd found by the door.
We match stride for stride, and the conversation comes easily—even when neither of us says a word.
The scent of fresh bread, fruit, and dew-kissed grass drifts across the square.
A fiddler at the edge of the main tent is sawing through a lively reel while children chase a dog armed with a tennis ball.
It's the ordinary heartbeat of a town that's seen enough strange things to stop being surprised by them.
Zadok stands behind the honey stall wearing a sweater embroidered with a bumblebee and a nametag that simply reads ZADOK. He spots us immediately and raises both eyebrows so high they nearly disappear into his hairline.
"Well, well," he calls, his voice carrying across the square. "If it isn't the infernal couple in the flesh. You two look...sated."
Daisy bursts into laughter.
"Morning, Z. Have you got any lavender honey left?"
He grabs a half-pint and passes it across the counter.
"On the house, if you promise to keep him from cursing the market again. Remember last time?"
"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."
My gaze drifts over the mugs waiting beside the French press, the honey on the counter, the fresh flowers in their vase, the groceries scattered across the kitchen.
Maybe we already had.