Nyssa liked mornings best. They were structured. Predictable. The ovens came to life in the same rhythm every day: preheat, knead, rise, bake, cool. The air filled with warmth and order. A sticky note was affixed in Nyssa’s neat handwriting:For sore muscles. Balanced protein. Texture: gentle.“It’s what I know,” Nyssa replied simply, turning back to her dough. “Do you ever get tired of people touching you?” Nyssa asked after a while. Nyssa tilted her head, considering that. “I dislike being touched without permission. It feels like static under my skin.” It wasn’t flirtation. It was a promise. Nyssa believed her instantly. “You relate better to dogs than people,” Nyssa breathed. The first time Nyssa shut down, it was after a long, overstimulating day. A customer had shouted at her for “ignoring” them when she’d simply been hyperfocused on the dough. The sounds, the smell of burnt sugar, the sudden brightness — everything became too much. Eventually, Nyssa reached out — not for words, but for contact. Her hand brushed Daisy’s wrist, fingertips trembling.“Too much noise,” she whispered.“No. Something’s… right, I think,” Nyssa replied. Her voice shook slightly. “You… you make things quieter. My house is quiet too. You could stay there, if you’d like. Permanently.” Nyssa’s lips twitched into a small, rare smile. “Non-negotiable.”