"So, I was thinking we scrap the whole Boho chic idea …"

"Aw!" Isabelle pouts. "But I really liked that one!"

"I know, I kn-ow." Kurt moves his hand over his mouth, subtly heading off a yawn. "But I think you'll like this one a little better. It's pastel Goth meets Martha Stewart, with a touch of Adam Lambert sex appeal thrown in."

"Ooo." Isabelle slides onto the corner of his desk and takes a seat. "Do tell."

"Alright." Kurt eagerly swipes through mock-ups on his tablet. He's been waiting all night to propose this change to their spring issue. It actually came to him at three in the morning, and in a possessed fury, clicked together. He'd considered calling Isabelle then, but there was no need to wake Isabelle just because he couldn't sleep. Kurt loves Boho chic, shabby chic, and all the other chics just as much as the next fashionista, but he really thinks his idea will make their spring style issue stand out, put it over the top. But before he gets another word out, his voice disappears, and that yawn he's been hiding behind his hand for the past hour finally has its moment.

Isabelle grins as Kurt shakes what remains of exhaustion out of his head.

"Ooo," she coos. "That kind of evening, huh?"

Kurt chuckles. "I wish. Blaine is struggling with a bout of creative insomnia, and since he's a musician, I, unfortunately, have gotten caught in the cross fire."

"Hmm, that explains your sudden burst of enigmatic ideas … and the bags under your eyes."

"What?" Kurt sneers, but that becomes a yawn as well.

"A-ha. You've been carrying enough luggage under your eyes this past week to hop a plane to Milan."

"Bite your tongue."

"Can't," Isabelle says, crossing her arms haughtily over her chest. "It's truth time."

"Well, consider that luggage checked because after this meeting, I'm declaring a self-care afternoon and grabbing a nap!"

"No! What are we going to do without your great, sleep-deprived ideas?"

"You can always tell Daphne to go off her meds again."

"Ha-ha."

"Kurt? Kurt? Where are you, Kurt?"

"Blaine?" The sound of his husband's voice, accompanied by a fanfare of gasps and laughter, pulls Kurt's attention away from the current conversation and out the door.

"Kurt? Are you … excuse me, pardon me … are you in your office?"

From behind his desk, Kurt can only see Blaine's head bobbing past. But having gotten negative hours of sleep, Kurt is not too sure how far Blaine can see. He raises an arm and waves in an attempt to get his attention.

"Blaine! Honey! I'm over here!"

A smiling Blaine turns left and right, trying to pinpoint the location of the man he knows belongs to that voice. When he spots his husband, he barrels toward him, weeding through models and assistants, gathering (and giggling) to watch Kurt and his husband reunite.

"Blaine! I …" Kurt had started standing from his chair, but stops when Blaine bursts through the doorway. "Oh goodness … honey …"

"Oh my …" Isabelle grins, helping herself to a long, leisurely look at the handsome man standing in front of them.

"Kurt?" Blaine says, completely unaffected by the looks he's receiving. "I got it!"

"Uh, got what?"

"I think I'll leave the two of you alone for a minute … or five." Isabelle hops off the desk and heads for the door. "Or an hour. Take however long you need."

"Yeah, thanks." Kurt ushers her out when she turns for one last look and locks the door behind her.

"I finally figured it out!" Blaine continues, unfazed by Isabelle's departure from the room, or the innuendo she left hanging in the air.

"Figured what out?"

"That song that was stuck in my head, and then suddenly wasn't?"

"The one you've lost six days of sleep over?"

"Yup, Kurt! That's the one!" Blaine says, too loudly and too quickly. "I remembered it! I remembered it, and I wrote it down, and now, it's all done! And it's good, Kurt! It's really, really good!"

"Blaine, that's … that's wonderful!" Kurt wraps his arms around his husband and hugs him hard. "I'm so proud of you!"

"Thank you." Blaine rests his head against Kurt's shoulder, the warmth of his husband's body and the relief that he feels nearly putting him to sleep on the spot. "I'm sorry I interrupted you in the middle of work. I just … I wanted to tell you in person."

"That's okay. I understand. But I do have one question."

Blaine peeks up at his adoring husband, his smile positively goofy. "What's that?"

"Did you know you're not wearing any pants?"

"Did I wha-?" Blaine leans back a hair, unfocused hazel eyes squinting as he tries to fathom Kurt's question. Slowly, parts of it begin to register in his foggy brain. He looks down, mouth agape when he sees his bare legs showing from beneath the hem of the white Calvin Klein undershirt he's wearing.

Kurt's right. He's not wearing any pants.

Thankfully, during whatever sleep-drunk stupor he was in when he'd decided to run out the door, he'd opted to put on underwear.

"No, I … I did not," he admits.

Kurt shakes his head. Poor Blaine. Poor adorable, sexy, daisy-headed Blaine. He's quite possibly the only man who could get away with walking through the streets of a major city in his underwear and not get arrested.

Then again, they do live in New York.

"Come on." Still holding on tight, Kurt leads Blaine over to his chair. It's padded, ergonomic, and it reclines. "You sit here and take a nap. I'll go to the vault and borrow you some pants."