The door clicked open close to midnight.

You’d been curled up on the couch with a blanket, half-asleep, but the sound had you sitting up instantly.

Timmy’s curls were flattened beneath a knit beanie, his shoulders slumping under the weight of another endless day — SNL rehearsals, interviews, red carpet photos where his smile never quite reached his eyes. A Complete Unknown was everywhere, and so was he.

When he stepped inside, you could see it instantly: the exhaustion carved into his face, the hollowness behind his eyes. He didn’t even bother with his shoes, just toed them off lazily and dropped his bag by the door.

“Hey,” you said softly, setting the woven blanket off your lap. You’d waited up, even though he told you not to. He smiled faintly at the sound of your voice, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmured back, voice hoarse, a faint smile tugging at his lips when he saw you. “Sorry I’m late.”

He crossed the room and practically collapsed beside you on the couch, head falling heavy against your shoulder. You felt his body sag — every ounce of tension in him pouring out the moment he touched you.

“You’re exhausted, Timmy. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I missed you,” he whispered, almost like an apology. “All this stuff—SNL, press, Bob… I feel like I haven’t been here at all.”

You sat beside him, tucking yourself close. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

His lips curved tiredly. He caught your hand against his cheek, holding it there like an anchor.

“Missed you,” he murmured.

“I’m right here,” you said.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead, feeling the warmth of his skin. His breathing slowed, the tension easing as he finally let go.

The world could keep its spotlights and flashing bulbs. Tonight, he was just Timmy — curled against you, safe, loved, finally at rest.