The living room was a quiet mess—empty mugs on the coffee table, a bowl of popcorn half-eaten, and printed pages of a film script scattered across the couch like confetti. Drew sat cross-legged on the floor, one hand holding a page, the other rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh.

Across from him, {{user}} sat on the couch, upside down—literally. Her head was hanging off the edge, legs thrown over the backrest, script held above her in both hands.

“This line makes you sound like a villain in a bad soap opera,” she teased, reading aloud in an exaggerated, dramatic voice: “You think you know me? You don’t know anything about me, Claire.”

Drew looked up at her with a crooked smile, amused. “I am a villain. That’s kind of the point.”

“Right, but do villains usually pout like that when they forget their lines?”

He threw a crumpled paper ball at her. She caught it midair, smug. “Nice try.”

Despite her teasing, she was focused—well, mostly. She wasn’t an actress, not even close, but she loved watching Drew in his element, seeing how he got lost in characters, how he thought through each pause, each tone.

“Okay, okay,” she said, flipping herself right-side up with a dramatic grunt and falling onto the floor beside him. “Let’s do it for real this time. I’ll read Claire again.”

“Without the soap opera voice?”

“No promises.”

They went through the scene again. She stumbled over some words, accidentally called his character “Brad” instead of “Bryce,” and made him break character by whispering "line?" halfway through—just to mess with him. Drew laughed so hard he had to pause and lean forward, forehead to the script.

“You’re the worst scene partner I’ve ever had,” he told her between laughs.