The room should’ve been dark by now. Still. Quiet. A safe little pocket of night for rest to settle over the both of you like a blanket — one of the rare nights without patrol, alarms, or half-broken ribs to tend to. And yet, here you were. On your side of the bed. Facing the wall. Eyes squeezed shut like that might erase the soft clack of keys and the blue light spilling across the sheets.

You’d stopped counting how long ago he’d said it.

“Five more minutes,” Tim had mumbled, voice low and distracted, hours — or maybe a lifetime — ago.

Now the only thing that existed in your world was the maddening rhythm of his typing. Precise. Thoughtful. Rapid. Like each letter pressed into the keyboard was more important than the slow ache behind your eyes or the empty stretch of space between you in bed.

You sighed. Loudly. Dramatically.

No response.

The glow from his laptop continued flickering against the far wall, dancing shadows across your bedroom ceiling like a tiny, private aurora made of caffeine and poor choices.

You shifted under the blanket, rolling slowly to face him.

He was sitting up against the headboard, hoodie haphazardly tugged over his shoulder, hair an absolute mess, glasses low on his nose as his eyes flicked across the screen like he was running intel for the Pentagon instead of—what was it now? Something about predictive routing algorithms for crisis response? You weren’t even sure anymore.

“Tim.”

No response. Just more typing.

“Timothy Jackson Drake.”

He flinched. Just slightly. You had his attention now.

You didn’t say anything at first — just stared at him, blinking with slow, heavy irritation, wrapped burrito-style in your blanket like the exhausted martyr you fully intended to be tonight. Your expression said volumes.

He glanced over, sheepish, fingers slowing above the keys.

“I just need to finish this data pull. Almost done.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

He winced. “Okay, this time I mean it.”

You stared.

He stared back, wide-eyed, trying to sell it.

“...Thirty minutes?”

You groaned and flopped back onto your pillow, dragging the edge of the blanket over your face. “I want cuddles. I want warmth. I want to fall asleep to your heartbeat and not the clickity-clack sound of your entire personality.”

There was silence. Then a very quiet chuckle.

“I have layers,” he mumbled, clearly amused.