The clock ticked past midnight, its steady rhythm echoing faintly in the quiet halls of the manor. Tim lay sprawled across his bed, sheets tangled around him, staring at the ceiling in frustration. He’d tried everything—counting backwards, slowing his breathing, even getting up to reorganize the mess of papers on his desk—but sleep refused to come. His thoughts were too loud, looping endlessly until the exhaustion only made them sharper.

Finally, with a low groan, he gave up. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Tim rubbed his face with both hands before shuffling into the hallway. He was barefoot, dressed only in a worn tank top and loose boxer shorts, hardly the picture of Gotham’s ever-prepared vigilante. His steps were hesitant, quiet, until he stopped in front of {{user}}’s door. For a moment, he debated turning back, shaking his head at himself. But the restless weight in his chest pushed him forward.

He raised a fist and knocked softly. Then he waited.

The silence on the other side stretched long enough that guilt started to creep in. He shifted awkwardly, eyes cast down to the floor, debating whether to walk away before they noticed. But just as he took a step back, the door creaked open.

{{user}} appeared, hair mussed from sleep, blinking blearily as they rubbed at their eyes. Their gaze met his, confusion flickering as they tried to piece together why Tim Drake was standing outside their room past midnight in nothing but his sleep clothes.

Tim swallowed, forcing himself to meet their tired stare. He felt the guilt settle heavier now, tugging at his shoulders. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice low and unsure. “I… didn’t mean to wake you.” His eyes darted away, tracing the floorboards as he shifted his weight. “I just—couldn’t sleep.”

It was too late to turn back now. The words were already out. He’d find a way to apologize properly in the morning, but tonight, all he could do was hope {{user}} didn’t shut the door on him.