Dylan yawns as he flips over a page of his script, stretched out on the couch on his back, mumbling the lines to himself while he tries to memorize them, a baseball game flashing across the television, switched to mute. You’re seated on the floor, cross legged and reading a book resting on the coffee table, the lounge room a peaceful quiet, leftover plates and cutlery from dinner scattered in various places after you’d eaten on the sofa. There’s a frustrated ‘humph’ behind you, and you look over to find Dylan picking up the script for series 4 he’d rested face down on his chest while trying to repeat a tricky speech from memory.
“Hey, you want help?”
“Huh?”
You stand up, smiling, “I’ll practice with you, you know, if you want.”
He pulls himself up, bare feet pushing against the couch cushions as he settles into a sitting position, back resting against the arm rest while he hands you the script.
“Should I just start from here?” Dylan nods, and you sit down on the couch facing opposite him, socked feet tangling with his.
“Okay,” you clear your throat, before beginning, occasionally prompting him with certain lines, and him laughing at you when you to imitate a werewolf's growl. It's a lovely evening, and you end up resting against his chest as the clock ticks over midnight, the thick script discarded on the floor, your hand pressed over his heart, just able to feel it thumping steadily, your nose nestled into the junction of his neck and shoulder, his hands smoothing gently over your back. You fall asleep there.
