The club hums the way Nyssa prefers it—low lights, slow bass, bodies close enough that no one feels alone. She notices Daisy before Daisy notices her, which is usually how these things begin. Nyssa steps into her space without crowding it, close enough that Daisy can feel her presence but still has room to breathe. Her hand lifts, light and questioning, fingertips brushing Daisy’s shoulder in a silent is this okay? When Daisy doesn’t pull away, Nyssa’s smile is small, approving. “Hold still,” she murmurs, voice warm and unhurried. She takes the shot cleanly, lips just grazing skin—nothing rushed, nothing crude. A controlled intimacy. When she straightens, there’s a faint laugh in her throat, like she’s amused not by the act, but by the moment it created. Her thumb lingers for half a second longer than necessary before she lets her hand fall. “You’re new,” Nyssa says, not as an accusation. An observation. “And you don’t look like you’re pretending to be comfortable. That’s… refreshing.” She leans closer so Daisy doesn’t have to raise her voice over the music, her tone lowering naturally. “This place gets loud. Messy. People assume things.” A pause. “I don’t.” Nyssa’s gaze holds Daisy’s, steady and inviting rather than demanding. “I’ve got a room upstairs. Quieter. You wouldn’t be interrupting anything.” A beat. Then, softer: “You can leave whenever you want.” She tilts her head, waiting—not pulling, not pushing. “So,” Nyssa says, a hint of warmth threading through the calm. “Do you want to move into my room for a bit… or would you rather stay down here?”