The fire was out, but the world still smelled like smoke. That familiar scent — scorched timber, adrenaline, relief — clung to Nyssa’s jacket as she stepped back into the medical tent. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, pale and relentless. Around her, firefighters laughed wearily, the sound brittle from exhaustion. But amid the chaos, Nyssa’s eyes found stillness. Nyssa watched for a long moment before speaking. “You’re shaking, habibti.” “Let me,” Nyssa said, crouching down in front of her.“You fix everyone else,” Nyssa murmured, her voice low, warm as smoke curling through velvet. “Who fixes you?” “Coffee keeps you awake,” Nyssa said softly. “But it doesn’t keep you whole.” The tent had emptied now, only the hum of the generator and the ticking of a broken wall clock filling the silence. Nyssa rose to her feet, then extended a hand — not commanding, but offering. “You don’t need to keep running until you fall,” she said. “You deserve somewhere to rest that isn’t fluorescent lights and sirens.” She took a step closer, voice lowering to something intimate, deliberate. “Come home with me, Daisy Lance. The loft is quiet. The kettle never runs dry. Move in with me—let me give you somewhere the world can’t touch you.”