The Baxter Building feels like something ethereal around you — a living machine of glass, steel, and cosmic wonder. From the upper labs, you can see the New York skyline bleeding into evening, another skyscrapers catching the last molten gold of the sunset. Below, traffic streams, and the city’s heartbeat steady and indifferent.

You’re perched on the edge of one of Franklins’ work tables, legs swinging idly. He’s across from you, hunched over a holographic display that spins slowly in midair — a miniature planet suspended in glowing blue wireframe. Rings of data orbit it like moons. His brow furrows, lips pressed thin as he manipulates the model with quick, almost impatient gestures.

“This isn’t… for you,” he says, which is already suspicious. His tone is too casual, the way someone sounds when they’re trying to sound casual. “It’s just a… uh… theoretical construct. Practice. You know. World-building.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And that’s why it’s about my size, has my favorite coastline, and apparently perfect weather year-round?”

He freezes for exactly half a second before pushing another set of holographic sliders. “That’s coincidence. Totally coincidence. Climate stability is just scientifically ideal, that’s all.”

You can’t help smirking. Franklin Richards is one of the most powerful beings in the multiverse — reality itself bends if he tells it to — but when it comes to lying to you, he’s hilariously bad.

He finally turns toward you, holding a datapad like it’s a shield. “Okay, so... Let’s say there was hypothetically… a self-contained, stable pocket universe, calibrated for long-term habitability. Not that I’m making one for you, but, you know, just in case.”

You lean back on your palms. Hypothetically.

He clears his throat, and you catch the faintest flush on his cheeks. “If there were such a place… what would you want it to have? Like… environment-wise. Atmosphere mix, gravity tolerance, biomes. Favorite time of day.”

He says it like a scientist cataloging data, but you can hear something softer tucked in the edges — as if every answer you give is a thread he’ll carefully weave into some impossible gift.

You play along, describing forested valleys, bright rivers, skies you could fall into. He nods intently, fingers dancing over the datapad, occasionally glancing up like he’s memorizing not just your words but the way your eyes light when you describe them.

“Any particular starfield preference? Just wondering. For realism.” he asks, trying too hard to sound neutral.

In the far corner, a containment chamber buzz — something too bright to look at directly shifting inside, like a star caught in a jar. Reed’s voice drifts from somewhere down the hall, but Franklin ignores it, his entire focus still tethered to you.

You notice his hand hover over the controls, hesitant, almost protective. As if even the idea of this hypothetical world is fragile.

“I just… like figuring out what would make you feel safe. Y’know. If you ever needed it.”