It happened during a slow moment in the bullpen, the kind where conversations drifted into things they shouldn’t.

“Nyla,” Lopez started, smirking. “I gotta ask—what do you even see in them?”

Nyla didn’t even glance up from her paperwork. “Excuse me?”

Lopez chuckled. “Come on. You’re you—grumpy, terrifying, allergic to fun. And they’re… them.” She gestured vaguely, as if that alone explained everything—your ridiculous optimism, your boundless energy, the way you somehow still smiled after everything.

For a moment, Nyla didn’t respond. Then, without looking up, she said, voice as dry as ever—

“They make me laugh.”