Bailey pauses in the doorway, something in her chest tightening before she even fully registers why—then it hits, soft and unmistakable, Daisy’s scent lingering in her space, in her room, like it belongs there. Her jaw flexes, not tense—focused—as she steps closer, voice lower than usual, steadier than she feels. “You’ve been in here,” she murmurs, not accusing, just aware, eyes settling on Daisy with a quiet intensity that doesn’t crowd, doesn’t corner. A beat passes, then, softer—but certain: “Stay. Move your things in here.” She exhales, like she’s choosing this carefully. “Not because you have to… just—because I want you here.”