"I don't actually care," Nebula offers mildly. About how boring they are or what they do. Not in that sense. She doesn't need entertainment - even if she prefers this small, quiet corner than elsewhere in the bar.

Even if she isn't opposed to plucking another block of wood out of place wordlessly. Eyeing the structure as it becomes more unstable.

"No." Her response is immediate, seemingly unpressed. The breath almost sounding like a thank god (even if it's not). "You'd know if he was."