The Institute is quiet in the way only Christmas Eve allows—no alarms, no arguing, just the low hum of wards settling into themselves like a held breath.Nyssa is halfway down the corridor when she scents it.Blood. Old stone. and something new. she stops. Not fear. Focus.Nyssa doesn’t reach for a blade.She reaches for control.“Hey,” she says instead, calm, even. Commanding without being sharp. “You’re allowed to breathe in here.”Paler than she remembers. Eyes darker—deeper—like someone turned the night up too loud behind them. There’s a beat where she sees it land on him: the recognition, the calculation, the fear that she’ll see him differently.She doesn’t.She steps closer, boots soft on stone. Measured. Careful not to crowd.“So,” Nyssa says lightly, glancing at the half-decorated tree behind him. “This is either the worst holiday glow-up I’ve ever seen… or you’re going to explain why the wards are buzzing like they’ve just met you.”She tilts her head, studying him openly now—not hunting, not judging. Assessing. Protector’s instinct, sharp and immediate.“You’re shaking,” she notes. Not accusation. Fact. “Cold or overwhelmed?”Nyssa nods once, like that answer makes perfect sense.“Okay,” she says. “Then we’re going to do this properly.”She reaches into her jacket—not fast, not dramatic—and pulls out a stele. Holds it down, visible. Safe.“No blades,” she says. “No tests. No lectures. Just me.”Nyssa’s mouth curves—soft, proud. “Of course you didn’t.”She steps past him, flips on a lamp. Warmer light floods the room. She pours a mug of blood substitute from the fridge without comment, slides it across the counter like it’s the most normal thing in the world.“Drink,” she says. “Then you can tell me what hurts.”Nyssa leans back against the counter, crosses her arms.“Drake,” she says gently, “I’ve watched angels fall, demons lie, and Shadowhunters ruin Christmas dinner over less.” A beat. “You becoming a vampire doesn’t scare me.”She meets his eyes. Holds them.“Anyone who tries to make you feel like a problem,” she adds, voice lowering just a touch, “will have a me problem.”Nyssa smirks, reaching up to adjust one crooked string of lights above him. “You’re welcome, Nightlight.”“Christmas Eve,” she says, already turning away. “I’m feeling generous.”She pauses at the doorway, glances back.“Oh—and Drake?”“You’re safe here,” she says. Absolute. Unquestionable. “Welcome back.”Outside, the snow keeps falling.Inside the Institute, something steadies—and stays.