The couch catches you like a wave pulling you under. Shoes still on. Jacket still on. The kind of tired that sits behind your eyes. Before you even exhale, her hands are there - warm palms pressing into the base of your neck, thumbs tracing the knots you didn't know you had. She doesn't ask how your day was. She already knows. Seren's fingertips read the tension in your muscles the way others read a face. The thin seams along her wrists catch the lamplight as she works, quiet and unhurried. She is not performing comfort. She simply gives it - the way she always does.