WORSHIP. | TMR CAST [7]
Pairing: Dylan O’Brien x Reader (TMR cast), Bang Chan x Reader (past)
While filming The Scorch Trials, you juggle chaotic days on set, Dylan’s barely-hidden jealousy, and the ghost of your past with Bang Chan—who suddenly asks you to dinner, forcing you to confront feelings you’ve been avoiding for years.
Word Count: ~3k
Warnings:
mild language
mentions of exhaustion/stress
jealousy
unresolved romantic tension
brief mention of past relationship/heartache
It’d been a few moons now since you’d seen Felix again and finally talked through your tangled feelings about Bang Chan—about how he was clearly still in love with you.
The conversation kept replaying in your mind like an overplayed track between takes, each line echoing in the back of your head as you stood on set under the harsh New Mexico sun. The sky was a washed-out blue, thin clouds stretched like pulled cotton, and the dry air tasted faintly of dust and sunscreen.
You rolled your shoulders as the crew adjusted lights and checked marks in the cracked dirt. The Scorch spread out around you in carefully constructed chaos: twisted metal, fake rubble, and sun-bleached props that looked far too real. Extras in tattered costumes milled about, waiting for the assistant director to wrangle them back into position. Someone’s walkie-talkie crackled behind you; another shouted for more water to be brought to the tents.
You shifted your weight from one boot to the other, the leather stiff and hot against your ankles. Sweat prickled at your hairline, trapped under the messy styling the hair department had done that morning.
Focus. You’re supposed to be in the Scorch, not in your own head, you scolded yourself.
But your mind didn’t care. It slipped back anyway—to Felix’s eyes, soft and serious, the way he’d said your name when you finally told him the truth.
Chan still loves you.
The words had tasted like guilt and relief on your tongue.
Felix had been quiet for a long moment, staring at the floor before looking up at you. “And you?” he’d asked gently. “Do you still love him?”
You’d swallowed, heart pounding, unable to lie—not to him, not to yourself. I don’t even know what to call what I feel anymore, you’d thought then. It’s too big and too old and too familiar.
Before you’d had to answer, you’d been called back to set. And now, here you were, months later, still carrying that unfinished sentence around like a weight in your chest.
A gust of wind swept across the set, whipping sand against your exposed skin and tugging at your costume. You squinted, shielding your eyes with your hand as grit scratched against your lashes.
“Hold that fan!” someone from the crew shouted, and a few of the rig guys wrestled with a massive wind machine mounted on a rolling stand. It roared louder, sending a fierce blast of air across the open space.
Dylan was standing a few meters away, talking to one of the stunt coordinators. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his hair was already artfully messy—whether from styling or the heat, it was impossible to tell. He lifted a hand to brush a strand from his forehead just as the wind hit stronger.
The air punched across the set in an almost comical burst.
Dylan staggered.
You watched his eyes widen, his balance disappear as the wind shoved into him like an invisible wall. His arms flew out, fingers splaying in surprise.
“Whoa—!” he yelped.
The force of it shoved him backward, boots skidding on the dusty ground. For a split second, it looked like he might recover, that his heel might catch on something solid.
It didn’t.
He lurched, stumbling dangerously close to a pile of fake rubble.
You burst into laughter, the sound ripped from you before you could stop it. The whole thing looked like a slapstick bit straight out of some exaggerated cartoon: leading man yeeted by the Scorch itself.
“DYLAN!” Ki Hong’s voice cracked across the set, high and panicked in the most dramatic way possible. “BRO, COME BACK HERE!”
He’d been standing a little distance away, and now he took off like a shot, arms flailing as he chased after Dylan, who was still trying to fight the wind as if it were a physical opponent.
“I’m trying!” Dylan yelled back, staggering sideways. The wind machine roared again, stronger this time. His shirt billowed, plastered itself to his body, then snapped like a flag. “Tell it to stop!”
Ki Hong skidded to a halt and shouted at the crew, “Yo, you guys trying to blow him into another franchise or what?”
You doubled over slightly, hand pressed to your stomach as laughter shook through you. Your cheeks hurt, and your eyes watered as dust and amusement mixed together.
This is so stupid, you thought, grinning so hard your face ached. He’s literally getting bullied by oxygen.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Thomas react. He’d been mid-conversation with someone near video village when Dylan’s backward stumble nearly turned into a full-on wipeout.
“Dylan!” Thomas called, already moving.
He sprinted across the uneven ground, his boots kicking up little clouds of dust. The wind whipped his shirt back, outlining the muscles beneath as he leaned into it like he was running through water.
You watched, heart ticking up with a strange mix of concern and amusement.
If he face-plants, that’s at least two days of memes in the group chat. Maybe three, you thought, biting your lip to swallow another laugh.
Dylan’s foot caught on a chunk of rubber debris disguised as concrete. Time seemed to slow for half a second—the tiny hitch of his boot, the lurch of his upper body, the wide-eyed oh-no expression flashing across his face.
“Tom, I swear to—” Dylan started.
Thomas lunged.
He reached out with one long arm, fingers stretching toward Dylan’s jacket. For a second, it looked like he might miss—Dylan’s momentum was dragging him sideways, the wind still shoving at his back.
Then Thomas’s hand closed around a fistful of fabric.
“I got you, mate!” Thomas grunted, digging his heels into the ground.
Dylan jerked, the sudden pull knocking the rest of the stumble out of him. He swayed once, twice, then finally found his footing, leaning heavily into Thomas’s grip.
The wind machine wound down as someone finally cut it, the roaring rush fading into a low whir and then silence.
The set held its breath for a heartbeat.
Then Ki Hong threw his arms into the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, the hero of the Scorch!” he shouted, pointing dramatically at Thomas. “Saving lives, one dumb leading man at a time!”
Laughter exploded around the set—crew members, extras, even the usually stone-faced AD cracked a smile.
Your own laughter came back in a wave, shoulders shaking, the leftover adrenaline of the almost-accident leaving your legs a little weak.
Dylan, still half-braced against Thomas, glared half-heartedly. “You all suck,” he declared, breathless but grinning. “I nearly died, you know.”
“You nearly got pushed over by a breeze,” Ki Hong shot back, marching up to them. He slapped a hand onto Dylan’s shoulder. “That’s not death, that’s embarrassment.”
Dylan looked over at you, catching your eye. His lips curved into a crooked smile. “You laughing at me too?”
You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to smooth your expression and failing miserably. “I would never,” you said, voice trembling with suppressed laughter.
I absolutely would, you added silently, the thought curling warm and amused in your chest.
Thomas released Dylan, giving his jacket a final tug as if to make sure he was steady. “Just stay upright for the next shot, yeah?” he said, still a little out of breath. “I’m not sprinting across set every time the wind machine sneezes.”
You walked across the hot, shifting sand toward Dylan, boots sinking half an inch with every step. The sun pressed against the back of your neck, bright and merciless, and the air still carried the leftover sting of the wind machine, gritty with dust.
Dylan was half-splayed on his back like a discarded action figure, one hand braced in the sand, the other shielding his eyes from the glare. His shirt was dusted with fine grains, clinging to the sweat at his collarbones.
You reached him and extended your hand. “Come on,” you said, lips twitching. “Next time, maybe try not falling face-first into the Scorch.”
He squinted up at you, eyes narrowing in mock offense as he slipped his hand into yours. His palm was warm and a little rough, fingers curling around yours as you leaned back and helped haul him upright.
“That wasn’t my fault,” he complained, dusting off his shirt with his free hand. His mouth pulled into a sulky little pout. “The wind out here is insane. I’m basically being personally attacked by climate.”
You snorted. “Yeah, sure. Blame nature.”
He really did almost get bullied into another timeline by a fan, you thought, a bubble of laughter sitting warm in your chest.
Dylan shot you a half-hearted glare before it softened into a crooked grin. “If I break my neck, I’m haunting you first. Just so you know.”
“You’d have to catch me first,” you shot back, letting go of his hand and patting a clump of sand off his shoulder.
Before he could reply, Wes’s voice rang out across the set. “Alright, reset! Let’s go again. [Y/N], your turn to go around Winston!”
You turned your head toward him. The director stood with his hands cupped around his mouth, headset slightly askew, script binder tucked under one arm.
You lifted your hand in acknowledgement. “Got it!” you called back.
Okay. Focus now. No more wind machine slapstick, you reminded yourself.
You moved into position, boots crunching through the uneven sand as you walked around Winston’s resting form. The fake corpse makeup looked more convincing up close—sallow skin, carefully placed grime, that eerie stillness the actor managed to hold between takes.
At the top of the dune, Alexander Flores waited at his mark, the sun catching the edges of his profile. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat, costume rumpled perfectly for maximum apocalypse.
He glanced over at you and smiled, the kind of easy, familiar grin that said we’ve done this a hundred times, we’ve got it.
“You ready?” he asked.
You nodded once, feeling the character settle over you like slipping into a well-worn jacket. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
Breathe. You’re not you, not right now. You’re them. You’re in the Scorch. Forget everything else.
The AD’s voice cut through the chatter. “Lock it up! Rolling!”
A second later: “And—action!”
The world narrowed.
Alexander shifted, staying perfectly in character as he started his descent. He slid down the last part of the dune, boots dragging through the sand, sending a small cascade of grains tumbling after him. His body moved with a measured urgency, each step calibrated to look half-exhausted, half-determined.
You moved with him, your breathing automatically deepening into that ragged, in-character rhythm. The fine powder of sand filled your shoes as you stumbled down, knees bending to keep balance.
Thomas swept down to your left, jaw tight, eyes hard, selling that mix of fear and leadership everyone knew his character for. To your right, Dylan clambered after you, his earlier clumsiness completely gone, replaced by sharp focus and controlled movement.
Kaya joined the motion a beat later, her expression knotted, hair whipping around her face in messy strands that somehow made her look even more perfectly apocalyptic. Ki Hong followed, his body language radiating restless energy as you all arced together around Alexander and the dune.
We’re a unit, you thought distantly, even as you stared past Alexander, eyes locked on some invisible point on the horizon. We move like we’ve been surviving together for years.
Sand hissed beneath your boots, every step sending up tiny puffs. Your lungs burned just enough to feel real. Your fingers flexed at your sides, hands itching with the character’s fear, the need to run, the hope you were barely holding onto.
Someone shouted a line behind you—Thomas, sharp and commanding. Dylan answered, voice hoarse, strung with urgency. You registered the words and let them pull you deeper in.
Then—
“—and cut!” Wes’s voice snapped across the set. “Beautiful! That was great, everyone!”
The tension in your shoulders broke. You exhaled, long and slow, like you’d been holding your breath for the entire take without realizing it.
“Nice one, guys!” someone from the crew called.
You glanced around as people started to move again, the scene dissolving back into organized chaos. The boom operator lowered his mic, the camera crew relaxed, and the extras reset their positions.
Wes raised his voice again. “We’re moving on from that one. Really nice work.”
A little spark of pride flared in your chest.
We nailed that, you thought, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips.
—
Later, inside your trailer, the world felt smaller, cooler, dimmed down from the blinding harshness of the Scorch.
The air conditioning hummed softly, stirring the faint scent of makeup, hairspray, and the lingering trace of sweat and dust embedded in your costume. The small space was cluttered in a lived-in way—water bottles on the table, script pages scattered, a sweater thrown over the back of a chair.
You sat in the makeup chair, the faux-leather seat creaking every time you shifted. A bright ring light glowed in front of you, reflected in the mirror along with your own face—half scrubbed of dust, half carefully being rebuilt.
Your makeup artist stood close, one hand resting lightly under your chin as she blended product along your cheekbone with a soft, practiced touch.
“Close your eyes for me,” she murmured.
You obeyed, lashes lowering as you let your body relax into the familiar routine.
Reset the face, reset the brain, you thought, feeling the gentle sweep of a brush across your eyelid. Another scene, another version of the same girl trying not to die in the desert.
Behind you, Dylan sat on the small couch, one ankle propped lazily over his knee, costume still dusty but slightly neater than before. Beside him, Kaya scrolled through her phone, thumb flicking rapidly, a half-empty water bottle balanced between her knees.
Thomas occupied the other makeup chair, turned slightly so he could face all of you. The artist working on him dabbed carefully at a smudge near his temple, trying not to laugh at something he’d just said.
The trailer buzzed softly with low chatter, the rustle of tools, the beep of someone’s phone receiving a message.
“Honestly,” Thomas drawled, tilting his head so his artist could reach his jawline, “I think we can all agree [Y/N] somehow manages to look good even while covered in fifty layers of sweat and fake dust.”
Your eyes snapped open on instinct, catching his reflection in the mirror. His gaze was already on you, one corner of his mouth curled into a teasing, almost flirtatious smile.
Heat crept up the back of your neck.
“Don’t move,” your makeup artist chided gently, pressing your chin back into place with a light touch.
You swallowed, trying to keep your expression neutral as she went back to working on the smudged dirt along your cheek. “Pretty sure I looked like a raccoon that lost a fight out there,” you muttered.
Thomas made a soft scoffing sound. “Yeah, a very attractive raccoon,” he said. “Like, if raccoons were unfairly hot.”
You huffed out a disbelieving breath, lips twitching. “That’s…that’s not a compliment, Thomas.”
Is he actually flirting, or is this just him being him? you wondered, pulse flickering a little faster. He flirts with everyone, right? This is normal. Totally normal.
Before you could gather a more coherent response, there was a dull thud.
Dylan’s boot had slammed into one of the legs of Thomas’s chair, the metal frame jolting slightly.
Thomas jerked, eyes widening. “Oi!” he protested, gripping the armrests to steady himself as his makeup artist pulled back with an exasperated sigh.
“Careful,” she muttered, examining the brush to make sure she hadn’t smeared anything.
Dylan sat back, expression exaggeratedly innocent, though the tightness around his mouth gave him away. “My foot slipped,” he said flatly.
You didn’t have to look to know he was lying.
In the mirror, you watched his reflection. His jaw was clenched a little too hard, eyes fixed on Thomas with a challenge that was almost childish.
Is he…jealous? The thought zipped across your mind before you could stop it. Over a raccoon compliment? Seriously?
Thomas twisted in his seat as much as the makeup artist would allow. “Your foot slipped into my chair?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up. “Convenient place for gravity to kick in, mate.”
There was a faint, offended edge to his tone, like he’d wanted to keep the mood light and Dylan had hit a nerve.
Dylan shrugged, not bothering to look apologetic. “We’re on wheels,” he pointed out. “Things move.”
Kaya snorted from the couch, not looking up from her phone. “You two sound like a married couple,” she muttered.
Your makeup artist’s lips twitched. She leaned in closer to your face, voice low. “Don’t smile,” she warned softly.
You tried. You really tried.
But the indignant look on Thomas’s face and the barely concealed annoyance on Dylan’s were too much. A small bubble of laughter slipped out of you, muffled behind closed lips.
Your artist’s shoulders started to shake lightly as she fought her own giggles.
“I can feel you laughing,” she whispered, half-laughing herself. “You’re making my job impossible.”
“Sorry,” you whispered back, eyes sparkling. “It’s just—”
Another mini glare-off sparked in the mirror—Thomas still turned slightly, Dylan staring him down like they were about to argue over custody of the trailer’s oxygen.
You pressed your lips together harder, trying to tame the grin pulling at your mouth.
Boys are so dramatic, you thought, amusement threading warm through your chest. It was one flirty comment and suddenly it’s World War III in the makeup trailer.
Thomas finally huffed, rolling his eyes as he surrendered and faced forward again. “Anyway,” he said, tone deliberately brighter, “as I was saying before I was so rudely assaulted…” He met your gaze in the mirror once more, voice dipping just slightly. “You look great. Apocalyptic chic really works for you.”
Dylan’s jaw twitched.
Your makeup artist bit her lip, shoulders shaking again. You exhaled slowly through your nose, fighting your own laughter as the brush traced carefully along your temple.
This set is going to be the death of me, you thought wryly. And not because of the stunts.
SCENEBREAK
Later that night, the set dust had finally been washed from your skin, but it still felt like it lingered at the edges of your thoughts.
Your bedroom was dim, lit only by the warm, golden pool of light from the lamp on your nightstand. Shadows stretched lazily across the walls, soft and familiar. The distant hum of traffic bled through your slightly cracked window, a faint reminder that the world outside was still moving even though your body felt like lead.
You lay sprawled on your back in bed, hair damp from your shower, the ends curling slightly against the pillowcase. Your T-shirt was soft and worn, clinging comfortably to your skin, and your legs were tangled half in, half out of the blanket like you couldn’t decide if you were hot or cold.
Your muscles ached in that oddly satisfying way that came after a long day of running, climbing, fake panicking, and repeatedly dying a little inside under the sun. You let your eyes drift shut, one hand resting loosely on your stomach as your breathing began to slow.
Just sleep, you told yourself. You’ve earned it. No scripts, no sand, no wind machines trying to murder Dylan—
Your phone buzzed beside you.
The sound was sharp in the quiet room, a small, insistent vibration against wood. Your eyelids fluttered, irritation pricking at the edges of your sleepiness.
Who the hell is texting at— you rolled your head to the side and squinted at the glowing screen. The sudden light made your eyes sting.
It wasn’t a text.
Your phone was ringing.
The name on the display made your stomach tighten for a brief, uncomfortable second.
Bang Chan.
A tiny frown pulled at your brows.
Of course, you thought, throat going a little dry. Of course it’s him.
The call screen kept pulsing, your own reflection faintly visible over his name in the glass: tired eyes, faint shadows beneath them, lips parted slightly.
You hesitated, thumb hovering over the green icon.
You don’t have to pick up, a quiet, rebellious part of you whispered. You could let it ring. You could text later. You could just…not.
But another thought pushed in, heavier, more familiar:
If you don’t answer, he’ll worry. Then Felix will worry. Then the others will ask, and it’ll turn into A Thing.
Your jaw clenched.
With a small sigh, you dragged your thumb across the screen and lifted the phone to your ear.
“Hello?” you said softly, voice a little rough around the edges from exhaustion.
There was a beat of silence on the line, a faint rustle, and then his voice came through—warm, low, and achingly familiar.
“Hey,” Chan said. “Did I wake you?”
You rolled onto your side, facing the wall, one hand tucking under your cheek as you tried to get comfortable again. “No,” you lied automatically. “I was just…lying down.”
Not technically a lie, you argued with yourself. You were lying down.
Chan let out a breath that sounded like he was half relieved, half nervous. You could picture him as clearly as if he were standing at the foot of your bed: fingers fidgeting with something—his sleeve, a ring, a loose thread—eyes shifting away, then back.
“How was filming?” he asked. “You sound tired.”
You huffed a tiny laugh through your nose. “Filming was…hot,” you said. “Dusty. Long. Dylan almost got blown away by a fan.”
There was a short pause, then Chan gave a quiet, startled laugh. “Wait, literally?”
“Literally,” you confirmed, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Big industrial wind machine, small, unsuspecting actor. You can imagine the chaos.”
“Wish I could’ve seen that,” he murmured, amusement still curling around his words. Then, softer: “Wish I could’ve seen you.”
Your smile faded at that, like someone had turned a dimmer switch.
You stared at the faint pattern in the wall paint, your fingers tightening slightly around your phone.
“So, um,” Chan continued after a moment, his tone shifting—lighter, like he was trying to sound casual and not quite pulling it off. “I was wondering… are you free tomorrow? Like, after filming. If you’re not doing night shoots or anything.”
You swallowed. “Why?”
You hadn’t meant for it to come out so blunt, but the word hung there anyway, flat and a little heavier than you intended.
Chan let out a tiny, nervous chuckle. “I thought maybe we could grab dinner? There’s this restaurant near your place I’ve been wanting to try. Just us, if that’s okay.”
Your chest tightened.
Just us.
Those two words felt loaded, like they were carrying the weight of years—late-night studio visits, shared headphones, long conversations half in English, half in Korean, the way he used to look at you when you were laughing and you’d pretend not to notice.
You turned onto your back again, staring up at the ceiling.
“I don’t know how long we’ll be shooting tomorrow,” you said carefully. “We’re still in the Scorch stuff. It might go late.”
“Oh. Yeah, no, I get it,” he said quickly. You could hear the slight rush in his voice, like he was afraid you were gearing up to refuse. “I just thought… if you’re not too busy, maybe we could go. If you are, that’s fine. Really.”
Silence stretched between you for a few seconds.
If you say no, you thought, he’ll hear more than just no. He’ll hear distance. Rejection. Maybe the others will too when he tells them you ‘didn’t have time.’ Felix will give you that look. The one that asks questions without saying anything.
You exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible.
“Okay,” you said at last. “We can go.”
You could almost feel his relief through the line.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice brightening. “Are you sure? I don’t want to, like, drag you out if you’re exhausted.”
“I’m always exhausted,” you said dryly. “But…it’s fine. Just tell me what time, and I’ll let you know if filming runs late.”
He laughed quietly. “Okay. I’ll text you the details. And if you end up stuck on set, we can reschedule. No pressure.” He paused, then added, a little softer, “Thanks for saying yes.”
Don’t make it sound like a favor, you thought, your chest giving a small, guilty twist. I don’t… I don’t know what this is anymore.
Out loud, you just hummed in acknowledgment. “I just have to let my friends know,” you said. “We were planning something for tomorrow.”
“Oh—right,” Chan said. There was a tiny beat, like he was trying to sound casual again. “Your castmates?”
“Yeah.”
“They won’t mind?”
You hesitated, then forced a lightness into your tone that you didn’t quite feel. “They’ll live. They’re very dramatic, but they’ll survive one evening without me.”
Chan chuckled. “Okay. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “See you tomorrow.”
You lowered the phone from your ear, listening to the faint click as the line disconnected before the screen went dark.
For a moment, you just lay there, the quiet of your room rushing back in around you.
Then you let out another sigh—longer this time, your chest sinking with it.
It’s probably easier this way, you told yourself, staring blankly at the ceiling. Easier to stay…friendly. Easier than dealing with awkwardness and questions and the whole group taking sides if things go weird.
Your thoughts flickered briefly to Felix—to the careful way he’d watched you talk about Chan, to the unasked questions in his eyes. To the rest of the boys, to shared memories and inside jokes and old comfort.
If I keep the peace, you thought, maybe I don’t have to lose any of them.
You didn’t let yourself follow that thought to its logical end—what it meant for you, what it meant for how you really felt. You just let it hang there, half-finished, like so many other things.
You picked up your phone again, thumb automatically unlocking it. The sudden white glow of the screen felt harsh against the soft dark of your room.
You opened your messages and tapped on Kaya’s name.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second.
How do I even phrase this? you wondered.
You typed:
Hey, I might have to skip tomorrow :/ Chan asked if we could grab dinner, and I said yes. I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you guys 🥺
You stared at the message for a moment, then hit send before you could second-guess yourself.
The little “delivered” popped up.
You dropped the phone lightly onto your chest and waited, counting your breaths.
One… two… three—
Your phone buzzed again.
You brought it back up and opened the thread.
Kaya:
ooooooh 👀
dinner with chan huh
do I need to cancel my schedule for your future wedding or what
A laugh escaped you, small but genuine.
You typed back:
Shut up 😂 it’s not like that
I think he just wants to talk
A few seconds later:
Kaya:
mhm suuuure
it’s fine babe, we’ll miss you but go
text me after and tell me everything
Warmth curled in your chest at the easy acceptance in her words.
At least no one here is going to be mad at me for this, you thought. One less thing to worry about.
You sent a final message:
promise 💖 love you
Kaya:
love you too, raccoon girl 🦝✨
You rolled your eyes, smiling faintly as you locked your phone and set it back on the nightstand. The screen went black, plunging the room back into its soft half-darkness.
You shifted under the blanket, pulling it up properly over your legs this time. The pillow was cool against your cheek as you turned on your side, facing the wall.
Your mind tried to spin—images flickering past in disjointed snapshots: Chan’s name on your screen, his voice in your ear; Felix’s steady gaze; Dylan’s crooked grin under the relentless sun; Thomas’s teasing smirk in the makeup chair.
Too many boys, too many feelings, not enough brain cells, you thought tiredly.
You took a slow breath in, then out, focusing on the rhythm instead of the noise in your head.
It’s just dinner, you told yourself firmly as your eyelids grew heavier. Just one dinner. You can handle that.
The hum of the city outside blurred into white noise, the softness of your bed cradling you more firmly as your body finally began to let go.
Your last coherent thought before sleep dragged you under was a quiet, stubborn promise to yourself:
Whatever happens tomorrow…you’ll deal with it. Later. Not now.
And then, at last, you drifted off.
