"I know you don't," he returns calmly. "Even if nobody's getting off on it, he still gets to do shit to you that I don't." She faces him; he reaches one hand forward, gently sliding it beneath the top of her pajamas to cup a bare breast in his palm, stroking over her nipple with his thumb. He can feel it harden beneath his hand, the skin drawing tight, and he exhales shakily. "The last time I got to do that was when we got back from our honeymoon," he murmurs. And, even though it means nothing, even though it's pretending, Brody gets to do a rougher version of that every night.

[Also, he's a classy bastard. Amanda's married.]

"Can I come with?" He's fully prepared for her to say no, but he doesn't really give a shit. If he has the time to be with her, he'll take it. "I can crash on the couch when you're onstage. I'll bring the iPad. Swear I won't bug you, I don't wanna stay here all day by myself when I could be with you." For coffee breaks, lunch breaks, times when somebody else is rehearsing a scene and she's got some time to waste.