You’d only come along to help a friend drop off a few things—scripts, tea, a box of pastries. Nothing dramatic.

But after hauling half the supplies into the rehearsal room, you finally collapse onto the nearest couch just to catch your breath. For about three seconds. Then someone sits down beside you. You glance over—

Michael Sheen, glasses low on his nose, script in hand, settling comfortably into the cushion like he’s been there all day.

“Oh good,” he murmurs pleasantly, noticing you. “Someone else escaping the chaos.”

Before your brain can even process that, the couch dips on your other side. David drops down with a tired sigh, long legs stretching out in front of him. He glances from Michael… to you… then back again.

“…Well,” he says with a crooked grin, “looks like you’re stuck between a grumpy Welshman and a loud Scottish man.”

Michael scoffs lightly. “I am not grumpy.”

David gestures vaguely at him. “You absolutely are.” Then they both look at you—like they’ve just remembered you’re there.

“…Sorry about that,” David adds, slightly sheepish. “We do tend to trap innocent bystanders.”