“Keys," Daniel said, holding them out. “You left them in your case folder. Again."
Diana took them, smirking. “I'm clearly unraveling."
“You were muttering Latin in your sleep yesterday."
“That's called ambition."
“That's called burnout."
She dropped onto his couch. “You worried about me?"
“Always."
---
Daniel had become a habit. One she didn't question.
Morning coffee left on her doorstep.
Text messages that read *Eat something, genius.*
Reminders to breathe between deadlines.
He didn't hover. He anchored.
When she forgot how to speak human, he translated exhaustion back into laughter.
He never asked for her trauma. He just made space for her healing.
---
“Do you remember when we were kids?" she asked one evening. “You gave me a stick of gum and said it was 'protection.'"
