Snow clung to the shoulders of Freya Mikaelson’s dark wool coat as she stood beneath the amber wash of the streetlight, gloves still on, posture steady and unhurried. When the door opened, her gaze lifted — calm, assessing, but not unkind — taking in Daisy Snow framed in warm light and softer uncertainty. Freya stepped inside only after a measured pause, removing her gloves with deliberate slowness, revealing strong, steady hands that had learned the art of careful touch. “You’re certain,” she said quietly, voice low and grounded, not assuming, not advancing — just offering the choice back. The faint scent of cold air followed her in, mingling with the warmth of the room as she met Daisy’s eyes, composed and professional… and entirely unprepared for the way this night might linger.