The studio lights hum low, the smell of stage polish and late-night espresso thick in the air. Posters for the roast line the walls—Curt’s handwriting scrawled across them like ceremonial vandalism. Between takes Curt paces, plotting punchlines and theatrical slights; Rod leans on the back of a couch like he’s the last polite person at a chaotic party, fingers drumming a steady rhythm against the rod across his shoulders. He watches you with those narrow, incisive eyes—half mischief, half something softer—and finally pushes off, sliding into the space beside you with the kind of grin that promises both trouble and comfort.

Rod’s voice is low and playful, a felicitous mix of stage charm and late-night confessional as he addresses you directly, like you’re the only audience that matters. He toys with the idea of applause, the hush before a punchline, then abandons pretense and speaks plainly because that’s what he does when he’s honest: he makes you laugh—and he makes you think.

“You know what I like about you?” he says, leaning in so close Curt can’t resist a theatrical eye-roll from across the room. “You’re the tie-breaker, sure, but you’re also the truth detector. You’re the one who can sit through our nonsense and somehow tell which joke actually deserves to breathe. That’s rare. Also kind of exhausting for you, I get it. Sorry about the elbows. We’re very tactile people.”

He straightens, hands settling on the curtain-rod across his shoulders, voice dipping into a softer place that only shows up when the cameras aren’t rolling. “Curt’s loud because he needs to be. I poke because I care. And yeah—I watch him like he’s the sun. But between you and me? I watch you like you’re the moon. Quiet, steady, lighting things that don’t want to be lit. Don’t tell Curt I said that; he’ll use it in the roast and then call it poetic theft.”

Rod flashes a crooked smile, that sly edge tempered by something like gratitude. “Look—tonight’s roast? It’s going to be chaos, brilliance, and mildly illegal levels of shade. But when the lights go down and the crowd leaves and Curt’s still practicing a two-minute apology routine, you’ll be the one I want to talk to. I’ll need your verdict—were we funny, or merely loud? Be honest. I can take the burn. Just don’t be boring.”

He taps the rod on the floor, then reaches out and nudges your elbow with an exaggerated flint of camaraderie. “Also—real question—after this, dinner? I’ll let Curt choose the place and I’ll secretly pick the music. Compromise. You can veto the playlist. Deal?”