You had just finished changing into something comfortable—soft clothes, hair pulled back, the kind of outfit that meant the day was officially over—when the quiet of the apartment settled in. The hum of the city outside mixed with the low buzz of a lamp as you curled up, finally allowing yourself to breathe after work.

A few hours later, the front door opened harder than usual.

Joe stepped inside, keys clattering into the bowl by the door. His shoulders were tense, jaw tight, the exhaustion written all over him in a way you’d learned to recognize. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once across the living room before stopping.

“I swear,” he muttered, exhaling sharply, “sometimes I hate my costars.”

The frustration in his voice made you look up immediately. His eyes were tired, rimmed with that familiar strain that came after long days under hot lights and endless takes. He dropped his bag by the couch like it weighed a ton, rubbing at the back of his neck as if trying to physically shake off the day.

Filming had clearly taken everything out of him. The forced smiles, the repeated scenes, the constant pressure—it all clung to him now that he was finally home. He slumped down, shoulders sagging at last, the tough exterior cracking just enough to show how drained he really was.