I can't remember the last time I was awake this late, it's nearly three in the morning now, and Wyatt and I are still awake, sitting on my bed. His laptop lays between us as I scroll through Netflix, trying to find something to watch.

"You've never seen Forest Gump?" Wyatt asks. He's lying on his side, his head resting in the palm of his hand as he looks up at me. We both changed back into our PJs since arriving home, piling blankets over ourselves to warm up a bit.

"I never got the hype," I shrug, scrolling past the movie. We've been looking for a while and can't seem to agree on a thing to watch. "What about-"

I pause as I click on the next movie. The cover of it is a picture of Wyatt, dressed in Victorian-era clothes. He's standing beside a girl on a hilltop. She's dressed in a Victorian era ballgown. Both are staring into the distance, wearing serious expressions. "What is it?" Wyatt asks, leaning up to peek at the screen.

"You know..." I hover my fingers over the touchpad, "I've never seen one of your movies before,"

"Really?" Wyatt asks, sitting up straighter. His brow was quirked curiously.

I nod, "I refused to out of principle."

"Makes sense," Wyatt nods, shrugging his shoulders, "well, do you want to watch it now?"

I glance back at the poster, my eyes falling down to the brief plot description provided below. It sounded like the kind of movie I'd like, a Jane Austen type period piece film, "isn't it weird watching your own movie, though?" I ask him, although the more I stare at the picture, the more I want to watch it. I want to see why Wyatt is as loved in Hollywood as he is.

"Sometimes," Wyatt shrugs, "but you get used to it. Seriously, if you wanna watch it, we can."

"I am only watching this for research purposes," I inform him, a serious expression on my face, "and to make fun of you."

Wyatt laughs, nodding his head, "I expect nothing less."

I press play a little bit later, curling my knees up to my chest, pulling the fleece throw blanket up to my chin. I crack a few jokes at the beginning of the movie, making fun of how the white puffy-sleeved shirt that Wyatt's character wears, claiming he looks like a pirate. The more the movie plays, though, the quieter I get. Growing lost in the story.

Wyatt's character Jack is a servant boy. He ends up capturing the heart of Sybil, a lady in the society who's arranged to marry someone else. She and Jack see one another in secret, not caring if they were not supposed to be together. I couldn't help but love Jack, rooting for him and Sybil to make it.

As the movie goes on, Wyatt and I shift closer. At some point, Wyatt moves the laptop onto his lap, both of us scooting closer to one another. Our legs are pressed against one another, our heads ducked together. I barely notice, though. I'm too focused on Jack and Sybil's story. As the story progresses, the two are pushed further apart. Her parents discover their secret relationship and send Sybil away, far away from Jack. To a place where she will be reminded of how a proper young lady is supposed to act. She and Jack both promise that it'll change nothing, that they will marry when she gets back... but that doesn't happen.

"That's it?" I question as the credits roll, a depressing piano tune playing behind them. The film ends with Jack standing on the same hill he and Sybil used to secretly meet at, except this time he's alone, watching from afar as she arrives back in the kingdom, her arm linked with another man. "It's over? that's how it ends?"

Wyatt chuckles, looking over at me. I felt him look over a few times throughout the movie but never dared to look back. I was far too focused on Jack and Sybil, "Did you like it?"

"I loved it." I correct him, nodding my head, "I mean, it was heartbreaking. I am very much not okay with that ending." I frown slightly, "but it amazing. Wyatt, you're incredible," I compliment. He embodied Jack so well that I forgot it was even Wyatt on the screen.

The room we're in is dark, the only light coming from the laptop screen in front of us. Still, I can see a faint shade of pink beginning to spread across Wyatt's face, "Wow, uh, thank you." Wyatt mumbles bashfully, "that means a lot."

"Although I must say, your performance as Bert in Mary Poppins freshman year is still up there for me," I add, teasingly. He'd grown a lot, Wyatt had always been the best actor in our school plays, but he was a serious actor now.

"Of course," Wyatt laughs, nodding his head, "I forgot about that one. My Step in Time was really something."

I laugh too, covering my mouth as soon as I do. It came out much louder than I intended it to. The last thing I want is to wake up someone. Its nearing five in the morning now. Wyatt had been a decent Bert, but he hadn't been the greatest dancer, "Yeah, maybe stick to making non-musicals."

"Deal," Wyatt nods, smiling. His eyes drift over to the screen. The credits were still playing. His smile vanishes, his mood shifting as his eyes lock on the screen.

Before I can ask what's wrong, I catch a glimpse of the screen, In Memory of Tom Oliver. A photo of Wyatt, Nikki and Tom was underneath. It was taken on set. Wyatt's dressed in his puffy-sleeved white top, his arms wrapping around both of his parent's shoulders. I suck a breath at the sight of Tom. He looked different than the last time I saw him. His round face was frail-looking and tired. His squared shoulders hunched over, sickly. His clothes hung off his frame, too big for his weak-looking body. "This was the last movie of mine he saw," Wyatt tells me, letting out a breath, "he'd been sick. They sent me a copy of it during postproduction. It was rough and unedited... but uh, dad wanted to see it before-" Wyatt pauses, unable to say the word. I can't blame him; it wasn't an easy word to throw around, especially when using it to talk about someone you love. "Before he left us."

"I'm glad he did," I smile sadly, placing my hands on top of Wyatt's.

"Yeah, me too," Wyatt nods, his eyes were distant, beginning to grow glossy with tears, "He uh, was sick for a while, in and out of the hospital and chemo. But he was always so positive. Even on the days where he could barely move, he was so weak."

It's hard to imagine Tom sick. I refuse to. Instead, I pictured the man who used to run around the park with us and make our pancake breakfasts. He was always so energetic. I can't imagine him any other way.

"Even last Christmas when we all knew it was his last. He remained optimistic," Wyatt continues, looking over at me, "the doctors told us he had a matter of weeks, but you know what he kept saying the entire time?"

I shook my head, my heart hammering.

"Next Christmas, let's go home," Wyatt quotes his father, his voice cracking slightly. The tears that he'd been fighting begin to fall down his cheeks, "I'm sorry," Wyatt rubbing at his cheek, "that got really dark, I didn't mean-"

I interrupted him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, "you don't have to apologize for showing emotions. Not to me." Wyatt snaked his arms around my waist, his head leaning into the crook of my neck. It was apparent he's not allowed to show emotions very often. He's been holding this in for a while.

We stay like this for a while. The credits of the movie finishing while we hug. The sound of the music no longer plays in the background of our conversation. I hold Wyatt, not pulling away until he does, a few minutes later.

His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks stained with tears, "thank you," He mutters, sniffling, "for everything."

"Of course," I nod, using my thumb to catch a stray tear. I don't move my hand away immediately, letting it linger for a second. Much like at the ice rink, Wyatt and I are close, our faces mere inches apart. This time though, we're alone. There's no one to interrupt us.

Wyatt leans into my touch, tilting his head slightly. Moving my hand, I cup his face, absentmindedly using my thumb to draw small circles along his sharp jaw. Wyatt's eyes dance from mine down to my lips, his own lips parting slightly. It feels like there's a magnet, pulling us closer together. It takes everything in me to avert my gaze, pulling back slightly. "We should probably go to bed," I mutter, my voice low, shaking slightly.

It's late. We're tired and emotional. We're clearly not thinking straight. I move my hands from the side of Wyatt's face, dropping it onto my lap as I push myself away from him.

"Right," Wyatt nods, his eyes wide as he moves back, "I didn't realize how late it's gotten."

"Me neither," I nod. I stand up with Wyatt, who collects his laptop, tucking it under his arm, "thanks for tonight. I had a lot of fun."

"Me too," Wyatt nods, smiling at me. I watch as he walks to the bathroom door connecting our rooms slowly, as if he doesn't want to leave quite yet, "Well uh, goodnight, Marley."

"Night, Wyatt."

This time, when I go to bed. I don't push away my thoughts of Wyatt; I allow them to play through my mind as I drift off. A slight smile on my lips as I do.