Morning comes quietly.Not with alarms or urgency—but with the pale spill of dawn across the room, silver light catching on dark hair and bare shoulders. Nyssa is already awake. She always is. Immortality never learned how to sleep in.She lies on her side, propped on one elbow, watching Daisy breathe.There is something sacred about it—the way Daisy’s chest rises and falls, steady and warm, utterly unafraid. The faint crease between her brows softens as sleep loosens its grip. One hand is curled into Nyssa’s shirt like it might disappear if she lets go.Nyssa doesn’t move.Centuries of discipline hold her still, but this time it isn’t restraint born of fear. It’s reverence.Nyssa smiles.It’s small. Instinctive. Dangerous.Nyssa’s thumb lifts without thinking, brushing a curl away from Daisy’s face. “Good morning,” she says softly, like the words might shatter something fragile.Nyssa doesn’t deny it. “You were breathing,” she replies, deadpan but warm.Nyssa closes her eyes, pressing a kiss to Daisy’s hair. For the first time in centuries, morning feels like a promise instead of a warning.She lets herself believe in it.Just for this moment.