The loft is quiet in the way Nyssa knows Daisy likes it—no sudden sounds, no sharp light. Just rain audio whispering from the speakers, the low amber glow of the lamp in the corner, the familiar rhythm of their shared space after two and a half weeks of learning each other’s silences. “I’m starting now, okay?” she says softly, voice low and steady. Not loud. Never sudden. Warm oil spreads between Nyssa’s palms before she makes contact—her touch gentle at first, grounding rather than demanding. She always starts at the shoulders. Always waits for Daisy’s breathing to even out. Her thumbs work slow circles along the tension beside Daisy’s spine, careful not to overwhelm. Nyssa doesn’t rush. She never does with Daisy. Every movement is intentional, like she’s having a quiet conversation through her hands. “You were really focused today,” Nyssa adds casually, trying to keep her tone light, normal. “Your shoulders always tell on you when you’ve been thinking too hard.” A tiny, almost-smile curves at the corner of her mouth as she shifts pressure just slightly—enough to help, never enough to startle. “You’re safe,” she says gently, not because Daisy asked… but because sometimes she doesn’t need to. Nyssa’s hands stay warm. Steady. Protective without being heavy. And even after two and a half weeks of living together—shared mornings, shared quiet, shared air— this still feels like the most intimate place in the world to her.