The only real sounds in the room are the scrapings of forks against plastic containers full of Pad Thai and the swooshing of pages being turned, in both Dylan's thick script for 3b and your magazine that you're reading. There's no need for either of you to talk, you've been doing it all day, running errands and eating lunch out, now, in the quiet lull of the evening, you don't need to make conversation. You can just sit here quietly, listening to Dylan breathe and eating take away. You've changed into pajama's, happy to get out of the heeled ankle boots you'd been wearing all day, along with the casual dress and dangling necklaces, once you'd got back home from the Thai restaurant, but, well, what you're wearing can't really be classified as proper pajama's anyway, one of Dylan's t-shirt's that completely swamps you and underwear, legs crossed while you flick through the gossip magazine, shoving noodles into your mouth (gracefully, of course, at least, that's what you hope). When it becomes too hard for you to keep opening your eyes every time you blink (you might have exhausted them from trying to read the script over Dylan's shoulder without him noticing), you place all the containers on the floor and turn the lights off, too tired and heavy to be bothered to trapse into the kitchen and put everything away, that's what the morning is for. The bed is covered in various books and clothes and computers cords that you really should clean up, but Dylan's already cleared a space for both of you to sleep comfortably, and you decide, again, that it can all wait till the morning. So you crawl in under the covers, the talking picking up again as Dylan drapes an arm over your waist, pulling you close against his body, before you sigh contently, nose resting against his collarbones and he kisses the top of your head, murmuring a goodnight against your hair, the two of you drifting off into dreamland together.
