Alex stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, fingers twitching at the hem of her DEO hoodie. Her eyes move — couch, dog, Daisy, ceiling — tracing patterns like constellations she’s memorizing to keep from short-circuiting. “You’re here a lot.” “No. I like it. You keep the place… regulated. Not just temperature, but… sound.” “I mean, sensory-wise. I notice when you’re gone. It’s… louder.” “Neither. I made a chart.” She crosses the room and sets down a small notepad. Daisy sits up. The page has three columns: ‘Pro,’ ‘Con,’ and ‘Sensory Risk.’ Under “Pro,” Daisy’s name appears five times, followed by “smells like cedar and cinnamon.” Under “Con,” there’s a single bullet: “less alone time (manageable).” Under “Sensory Risk,” it simply says: “shared toothbrush holder anxiety (solvable).” Alex folds her arms — a faint defensive huff. “It’s efficient. You have your dog, your toothbrush, your badge, and your coffee cup here four nights out of seven. That’s a majority. Statistically, it makes sense.” Alex hesitates — shoulders stiff, voice lowering to that soft, monotone truth she only uses for Daisy. “Emotionally… it feels right. And terrifying. But mostly right.” Alex’s jaw flexes. She swallows hard. “Move in with me Daisy Sawyer”