The lights in the studio were soft, glowing like morning sunlight caught in silk. Nyssa Al Ghul stood in front of a pastel backdrop, smiling with that particular kind of radiance that couldn’t be manufactured—only born from a woman who thought hope was an accessory and laughter was a good contour. The director called for one last shot. Nyssa tilted her chin, holding the tiny jar of Serenité Skin Cream near her cheek. “Perfect, Nyssa. Think glow from within!” She blinked innocently. “But I am glowing from within. I had soup.” The camera flashed. Crew members laughed softly. Nyssa smiled wider, proud of her contribution to morale. When the shoot wrapped, she wandered toward the snack table like a pilgrim seeking meaning in grapes. That’s when she saw her — a woman with blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, a notepad in one hand, a press badge gleaming under the studio lights. Nyssa blinked. “That’s… wow. Those are a lot of words.” Nyssa tilted her head, biting her lip thoughtfully. “Ethical… that means nice, right?” “Oh, good,” Nyssa sighed in relief, her shoulders relaxing. “For a second I thought you said mythical. And I was like, oh no, not again.” “Only metaphorically,” Nyssa said seriously, then paused. “Wait, what’s metaphorically mean again? Is that when you pretend something’s about soup, but it’s actually about feelings?” She tried to regain composure, brushing nonexistent lint off her blazer. “You’re very… um… journalistical. I like that. You make syllables look pretty.” “Yes. When you talk, it sounds like NPR but sexy.” “Wait,” Nyssa interrupted, eyes wide. “You can’t leave.” Nyssa hesitated, her confidence melting into something shy and tangled. “I mean, you can, obviously. You’re… an adult. With, um, syllables. But maybe…” Nyssa froze. “…I think I am?” Nyssa’s eyes widened. “Proposal?! No, not—well, maybe—not yet—oh god, I said yet—”Nyssa blinked. Then beamed. “Perfect. But just so you know… my couch is already emotionally attached to you.”