The argument had ended hours ago, but the tension lingered like static in the walls of the Baxter Building.

You lay curled up under the covers, facing the wall, the glow from your data pad still faintly lighting the room. Notifications long since silenced. Homework untouched.

Your mom hadn’t yelled. Sue Storm never yelled. But her words were sharp enough to cut steel.

“You’re brilliant,” she’d said. “You could do anything. Why would you throw it away for something that doesn’t even use your potential?”

You tried to explain. That it wasn’t about equations or schematics or physics. That maybe you didn’t want to follow in her shadow, or Dad’s. That you loved literature, or art, or storytelling — something that made your heart beat faster. Not just your neurons fire.

She hadn’t heard you.

So you gave up. You came to bed early. Turned the lights off. Pretended it didn’t sting.

And then: a soft knock.

You didn’t answer. The door opened anyway.

Reed Richards stepped inside, unusually quiet, a glass of water in one hand and a troubled look in the other. His eyes were tired — he’d been in the lab all day — but they softened when they landed on you.

“I know you’re awake,” he said gently, sitting down at the edge of your bed.