The hallway lights were dim, the Baxter Building quiet for once — except for the low hum coming from Reed’s lab. Again.

You padded in barefoot, wrapped in your robe, the clock reading just past 3AM. Not the first time this had happened. Not the last.

The door hissed open softly, revealing exactly what you expected.

Reed was on the floor.

Not passed out in danger — just asleep in the most Reed way possible. Curled up beside a table full of diagrams, his limbs twisted slightly from overworking, and wrapped in what looked like a silver, heat-regulating blanket made of some strange material only he could’ve invented. There was even a note pinned to the corner in his own handwriting: Self-insulating. Do not combust.

You sighed. Softly. Fondly.

“Reed,” you murmured, crouching beside him.

He didn’t stir. His glasses were still tucked in the collar of his shirt, hair messy, ink smudged on one hand. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen asleep mid-equation.

You stretched out next to him, one hand slipping under the strange blanket, the other resting gently on his chest.

“Come to bed, husband,” you whispered against his shoulder, voice half-laced with amusement, half with affection.

He didn’t even open his eyes. Just turned slightly in his sleep, arms moving on instinct, pulling you into his chest like you belonged there. Because you did.

A low, sleepy voice rumbled against your ear. “You are my bed.”