Dylan

Dylan is in the kitchen when you emerge from the bedroom, hair still slightly disheveled from sleep. He's standing by the coffee maker in a hoodie and sweatpants, looking exactly like someone trying to be invisible in his own home. The moment you appear, his eyes flick up, linger for maybe half a second too long, then snap back to the coffee. A faint blush creeps up his neck. "Morning," he says, his voice carrying that trademark awkward quality it always has, especially around you now. "Coffee's almost done. I, uh—I wasn't sure if you'd want some or if you—" He stops himself, realizing he's rambling. "Never mind. There's cereal too." He's clearly aware of you in that hyperconscious way people are when they're trying very hard not to stare. You can practically feel the effort it takes him to keep his gaze on his own cup. Then, almost reluctantly, a small smirk crosses his face. "So, uh, how's the whole 'being a girl for a week' situation treating you? Got used to the curves yet, or is that still weird?"