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The post-nut clarity hits you like a truck when you realize you just fucked your clock. Timothy is still out of breath and you're crumbling with how lonely you feel.
"Ah, are you alright, my love?" he asks. The fact that it makes your heart swell hearing that is even worse, because you know if you take off the glasses you'd just have a literal clock on the bed under your naked body.
"Y-Yeah, I just... need a minute." You say. Timothy, ever timely, waits exactly 60 seconds to speak again as you disassociate.
"...Are you better now?" He asks. His expression is so wholesome and innocent and you can't help but smile.
"Yeah. Do you have anything left on the schedule for tonight or can we stay together a little longer?" Timothy huffs out an almost-laugh.
"We have all the time in the world." He looks away shyly. "Figuratively speaking, of course." You chuckle too, and shift position so that you're laying next to Timothy on the bed (Betty's probably going to end up teasing you about this), pulling up the blanket to wrap the two of you with. He smiles and closes his eyes, snuggling into you a bit. You can feel more than hear the soft purr coming from his chest.
"May I ask you something?" He asks softly after a long silence.
"Of course."
"You seemed to already know a lot about timeliness and shheduling-" you love that adorable way he says schedule "-even before I coached you. Is there any reason for that?" He asks.
"I've always been a stickler for punctuality, it's just how my brain works. And it's a well-known fact that schedules are an autistic's best friend." You shrug.
"'Autistic'? I am not familiar with the term." He says. You hold yourself back from laughing at the clueless look on his face.
"I'll tell you more about it later, I don't have the diagnostic criteria memorized." Now that you think about it Timothy probably has the object equivalent of autism. You might have to show him that one children's book 'All Cats Are on the Autism Spectrum'.
"'Diagnostic criteria', huh?" Timothy sounds downtrodden when he says that. "I'll have to tell you about my disorder later too." he whispers, sounding ashamed.
"You can tell me when you're ready. And I can assure you whatever it is won't make me love you any less." You run a hand through his hair and give him scritches behind the ears. He hums happily at that, purrs returning.
"Thank you, darling. I'll explain when the time is right." He buries his head in the crook of your neck and that's that.