Nyssa doesn’t sit still.She’s been circling her own living room for the better part of ten minutes—straightening a throw pillow that doesn’t need it, adjusting the fairy lights on the window even though they’re already crooked on purpose, checking the kettle for the third time.The knock makes her jump anyway.She opens the door with a soft, slightly breathless smile, hair loose and wavy, wrapped in an oversized sweater that smells faintly like tea and detergent. For half a second, she just looks at him—really looks—like she’s confirming he’s real.“Hi,” she says, and then immediately exhales a laugh. “Right. Sorry. Come in.”She steps aside, closing the door behind him, the apartment warm and glowing in that quiet Christmas-morning way. The tree lights blink lazily. There’s music playing low—something instrumental, inoffensive, safe.Nyssa gestures vaguely toward the couch, the kitchen, everywhere and nowhere.“I—” she starts, stops, then rubs the back of her neck, sheepish. “I should probably tell you this before we do anything else.”She meets his eyes, honest, a little self-conscious but not backing down.“So. Last night?” A beat. “I spent about four hours replaying me asking you out in my head. Then another hour googling ‘how to ask a surgeon out’…” She winces. “Which, for the record, is a terrible idea. Do not recommend.”A small smile tugs at her mouth.“I nearly texted you an apology at three in the morning,” she admits. “For the audacity. And then I decided that was worse.”She shrugs, softer now.“So if I’m a bit…” she gestures to herself, vaguely chaotic, “that’s why. But I am really glad you’re here.” She lets the silence settle—not awkward, just open.“Tea?” she adds gently. “I make a very good cup when I’m nervous.”