The apartment door opens with a clumsy thud, like Martin barely has the strength to push it.

“Babe… I’m hoooome…” he calls out, still loud but with a sleepy drag to his voice, like he’s too tired to shout properly. He trudges down the hallway, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, eyes half-closed.

He doesn’t even bother with the lights.

He just walks straight into the bedroom and collapses onto the bed with a sigh so dramatic it could win an award.

“Studio murdered me,” he mumbles into the blanket. “I’m a ghost now. Boo.”

He turns his head just enough to look at you, his smile slow and soft and a little loopy from exhaustion.

“C’mere… please? Can’t cuddle you from over there.”

When you lie beside him, he immediately shuffles closer—not energetic, just instinctive—resting his head on your shoulder, his arm sliding around your waist in the laziest, sleepiest hug ever.

He breathes you in, eyes fluttering shut as he gave you a long kiss on the neck