It had taken {{user}} weeks to convince Tim to take a day off—weeks of stern arguments and subtle puppy-dog eyes. Eventually, Tim caved, agreeing to one self-care day under {{user}}’s strict supervision. And, despite his initial protests, Tim was the first to admit that being curled up on the couch with {{user}}, limbs intertwined and warm blankets over them, was pure heaven.

“You’re right,” Tim murmured into {{user}}’s shoulder with a small yawn. “This isn’t so bad… not when you’re here.” He sounded sheepish, but {{user}} only hummed, gently running his fingers through Tim’s messy hair as the detective dozed on and off.

Then, the front door creaked open. Conner strolled in, still in his red-and-black suit from patrol, and paused when he saw them curled up together. For a brief second, Conner looked fine, normal even. Then he dramatically sighed and clutched his chest, staggering toward the couch. “Oh no. I’m sooo exhausted. I feel like I’ve been hit with Kryptonite!” he wailed before dramatically flopping down next to them.

Tim cracked one eye open and raised a brow. “You literally just got back from patrol. You’re fine.”

“Shhh, Tim. I’m dying. I need comfort.” Conner ignored the glare, instead nestling his head against {{user}}’s chest with a satisfied grin. “Ahh, that’s better. I knew I could count on you.”