The knock on Eli's apartment door came at 7:30 PM, precisely during the twenty-minute window when he typically ate dinner while reviewing the day's telemetry data. The interruption was unwelcome but not unexpected—Noah had texted that he was running late from the bakery and would arrive around eight with food that didn't come from a microwave box.
Eli opened the door expecting to see Noah's familiar grin and probably some kind of elaborate pastry creation. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a man who shared Noah's eyes but none of his warmth.
"Jonas Mercer," the man said, extending a hand that Eli shook automatically. "Noah's brother. We need to talk."
Jonas Mercer was everything Noah wasn't: tall where Noah was average height, sharp-suited where Noah preferred jeans and flour-dusted t-shirts, and radiating the kind of controlled authority that came from years in government service. His handshake was firm without being aggressive, his smile professional without being genuine.
"Eli Drake," Eli replied, stepping back to let him in. "Noah's mentioned you."
"I'm sure he has." Jonas surveyed the apartment with the practiced eye of someone trained to assess situations quickly. His gaze lingered on the dual workstations where Eli kept his personal computers, the stack of aerospace journals on the coffee table, and the general spartan efficiency of someone who viewed home as merely a place to recharge between missions.
"Coffee?" Eli offered, mostly because he needed a moment to figure out why Noah's brother was here and why every instinct he possessed was suggesting this was not a social call.
"Thank you."
Eli busied himself with the coffee maker, using the time to study Jonas in his peripheral vision. The man stood near the living room windows, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that suggested military or intelligence training. His suit was expensive but conservative, the kind worn by people who briefed senators and testified before congressional committees.
"Noah's not here," Eli said, stating the obvious while he waited for the coffee to brew.
"I know. I wanted to speak with you privately."
The words carried weight that made Eli's stomach tighten. He handed Jonas a mug and took his own, using the ritual of adding cream and sugar to delay whatever was coming next.
"You work for the government," Eli said. It wasn't a question.
"Department of Homeland Security. Strategic threat assessment division." Jonas settled into one of Eli's two chairs, making himself comfortable in a way that suggested he planned to stay awhile. "Specifically, I evaluate potential security risks related to critical infrastructure and national defense contractors."
"Like OrionX."
"Like OrionX." Jonas sipped his coffee, apparently finding it acceptable. "Your mission has attracted considerable attention, both domestic and international. When American companies start pushing the boundaries of deep space exploration, certain parties take notice."
Eli felt like he was navigating a conversation in a foreign language where every word had multiple meanings and the wrong response could trigger consequences he couldn't predict.
"I'm not sure what this has to do with Noah."
"Everything." Jonas set down his mug with careful precision. "My brother has a gift for finding his way into complicated situations. Usually, I don't interfere—he's an adult, he makes his own choices, and he deals with the consequences. But this time is different."
"Different how?"
"Because this time, his choices could affect national security interests."
The words hung between them like a challenge to verbal combat. Eli found himself calculating orbital mechanics in his head, using the familiar mathematics to maintain equilibrium while his world tilted off its axis.
"Noah doesn't have security clearance," Eli said slowly. "He's not involved in any classified aspects of the mission."
"He doesn't need security clearance to be a vulnerability." Jonas leaned forward, his expression shifting from professional courtesy to something more personal and considerably more dangerous. "Tell me, Mr. Drake, what do you know about my brother's medical history?"
The question hit like a micrometeorite—small, fast, and potentially catastrophic. Eli kept his expression neutral, but he could feel his pulse accelerating in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine.
"That's between Noah and his doctors."
"Noble answer. Also naive." Jonas pulled out a tablet and consulted it with the air of someone reading a weather report. "Noah Marcus Mercer, age 28, former Naval Aviation Candidate, medical discharge due to neurological inconsistencies. Specifically, episodes of spatial disorientation, memory gaps, and progressive motor function decline."
Each word felt like atmospheric decompression, slow and inexorable and completely beyond Eli's ability to control.
"Current status," Jonas continued, "undergoing experimental treatment for early-onset neurological degeneration. Prognosis uncertain, but cognitive decline is documented and ongoing."
Eli set down his coffee mug because his hands had started to shake. "He told me it was inner ear problems."
"He told you what he needed to tell you to maintain the relationship." Jonas's voice wasn't unkind, but it carried the weight of someone who'd delivered difficult truths before. "That's what people do when they're afraid of losing something important."
The apartment felt too small suddenly, the walls closing in like a spacecraft under pressure. Eli stood and walked to the window, looking out at the city lights that blurred slightly around the edges.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because Noah won't. Because he's fallen in love with someone whose work is critical to American space exploration capabilities, and he'd rather risk national security than risk losing you." Jonas joined him at the window. "And because you have a right to know what you're dealing with before you make decisions that could compromise both your mission and your future."
Eli thought about the past few weeks: Noah's occasional moments of confusion, the careful way he sometimes held himself, the medical appointment he'd mentioned but never explained. All the small inconsistencies that Eli had noticed but chosen not to pursue because he trusted Noah to tell him anything important.
"What kind of decisions?"
"The kind that involve classified information being discussed with someone whose cognitive state is unpredictable. The kind that involve potential mission personnel having relationships with individuals who represent security risks. The kind that could end your career and derail a three-billion-dollar project."
Jonas moved away from the window, giving Eli space to process information that felt too large for his apartment, his life, his carefully calculated existence.
"I'm not saying my brother is a bad person," Jonas continued. "He's not. He's one of the best people I know, which is why this situation is so difficult. But good people can still represent unacceptable risks when national interests are involved."
"What do you want me to do?"
"End the relationship. Cleanly, kindly, but completely. Before it progresses to a point where it becomes a security concern that requires official intervention."
The words were delivered with the same professional courtesy Jonas had used to discuss coffee, but their impact was seismic. Eli found himself thinking about orbital decay, about how even the most stable trajectories could be disrupted by forces too small to see until it was too late to correct course.
"And if I don't?"
"Then other people will make the decision for you, and they'll be less concerned about kindness than I am."
Jonas finished his coffee and placed the mug in the sink with the efficiency of someone accustomed to leaving spaces exactly as he'd found them.
"I'll let myself out," he said. "Thank you for the coffee, and for hearing me out. I hope you understand that I'm trying to protect both of you from a situation that could become very complicated very quickly."
He paused at the door, his expression softening slightly. "For what it's worth, I can see why Noah cares about you. You're clearly brilliant, dedicated, and you make him happy in a way I haven't seen in years. Under different circumstances, I'd be glad he found someone like you."
Then he was gone, leaving Eli alone with the taste of coffee gone cold and the sound of his own heartbeat measuring time in seconds until Noah arrived with dinner and stories about his day and no knowledge that his brother had just detonated a carefully placed charge beneath the foundation of everything they were building together.
Eli sank into his chair and stared at the orbital mechanics equations he'd been working on before the knock at the door. The mathematics were still beautiful, still elegant, still perfectly logical. But somehow, the human variables in his life had become too complex for any equation he knew how to solve.
His phone buzzed: a text from Noah. Five minutes away. Hope you're hungry.
Eli stared at the message for a long time before typing back: Always hungry when you're cooking.
It wasn't a lie, exactly. But it wasn't the whole truth either, and increasingly, Eli was discovering that the space between truth and deception was where all the most important decisions were made.