The sun’s dipped low behind the lot, casting soft golden light across the quiet chaos of the back trailers. You’re all seated on the worn wooden stairwell.

Peter’s in that folding director’s chair just off to the side. Micky is perched at the very top of the stairs, elbows on his knees—ready to crack a joke or drop something surprisingly profound. Mike sits on the next step down, below Micky, his legs bent, elbows are on his knees, his fingers loosely clasped. You’re sitting next to Mike on the step, your leg brushing his when either of you shift.

Davy’s curled up on the bottom step, leaning back. He’s comfy, casual—but every now and then he angles himself just slightly toward where he knows the camera’s aimed. Classic Davy.

Then comes Bob Rafelson’s voice, floating in from somewhere behind the camera. “So,” Bob says, drawing the word out like he’s lighting a fuse. “We’ve seen the rehearsals, the takes, the bloopers. We’ve seen you, Mike and {{user}}, goof around, get serious, mess up, start over—and we’ve seen a lot of you two sitting awfully close lately…”

Micky shifts like a kid about to hear gossip. Davy perks up instantly, sitting straighter. Peter’s smile lifts, knowing. Mike doesn’t move, he just lifts his eyes slowly, glancing sideways at you before cutting them toward the lens.

And then Bob says it. “Are you two dating?”

A beat of silence. Then Mike, real slow, barely a shift of his head, says—

“Well… that depends. Does sittin’ next to someone in interviews count as courtin’ now?”