The morning shift at Stellar Sweets should have been routine—mixing dough, shaping pastries, managing the steady stream of customers who wanted their caffeine fix accompanied by something sweet. Noah had performed these tasks hundreds of times, his hands moving with muscle memory while his mind wandered to thoughts of cardboard boxes and the apartment key that Eli had given him the night before.
But at 9:47 AM, while he was carrying a tray of freshly baked croissants from the oven to the display case, Noah's vision suddenly tunneled into a narrow corridor of light surrounded by expanding darkness.
The tray clattered to the floor as Noah grabbed the counter for support, his knees buckling as the world tilted sideways. Through the rushing sound in his ears, he could hear his manager, Sarah, calling his name from somewhere that seemed very far away.
"Noah? Noah, are you okay?"
He wanted to answer, wanted to explain that this wasn't unusual, that he just needed a moment for his visual cortex to remember how to process information correctly. But the words wouldn't form, trapped behind the neural static that accompanied these episodes.
Sarah's hands were on his shoulders, guiding him to a chair behind the counter while she called for someone to watch the front of the store. Noah closed his eyes, focusing on breathing steadily while waiting for the symptoms to subside. Usually, these episodes lasted no more than a few minutes—long enough to be frightening, short enough to rationalize away.
"Should I call an ambulance?" Sarah asked, her voice tight with concern.
"No," Noah managed, though his voice sounded strange to his own ears. "Just... give me a minute. Low blood sugar."
It was a lie he'd used dozens of times over the past three years, convenient enough to explain sudden dizziness or confusion without requiring detailed medical explanations. Sarah knew about his "hypoglycemia," had even adjusted his work schedule to accommodate regular meal breaks that he claimed were necessary for blood sugar management.
"Here," Sarah said, pressing a bottle of orange juice into his hands. "Drink this slowly."
Noah accepted the juice gratefully, using the time it took to drink it as cover for the gradual return of normal vision and cognitive function. By 10:15, he felt steady enough to stand, though the lingering headache and mild disorientation would probably persist for hours.
"Better?" Sarah asked.
"Much. Thanks." Noah managed a smile that he hoped looked reassuring. "I should probably eat something real for lunch today instead of surviving on pastry samples."
Sarah laughed, the tension in her voice easing. "Take an extra break if you need one. And maybe see a doctor about adjusting your medication?"
The suggestion made Noah's chest tighten with anxiety. He'd been managing his condition without formal medical supervision for six months, ever since his last neurologist had recommended experimental treatments that Noah couldn't afford and didn't want to pursue. The idea of returning to the cycle of tests, consultations, and progressive treatment failures was almost worse than dealing with the symptoms themselves.
"I'll think about it," he said, which was true in the same way that considering all options was technically thinking about them.
The rest of his shift passed without incident, though Noah found himself hyperaware of every moment of dizziness, every instance of momentary confusion that might signal another episode. By closing time, he was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical labor and everything to do with the constant vigilance required to monitor his own neurological function.
As he walked to his car, Noah's phone buzzed with a text from Eli: Crazy day at work. Looking forward to seeing you tonight. Should I pick up dinner on the way home?
The casual assumption of shared domestic routine—"on the way home"—made Noah smile despite his lingering headache. He typed back: I'll cook. Need to do something with my hands that doesn't involve pastry.
Everything okay?
Noah stared at the question, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. This was the moment when he could mention the episode, could begin the conversation about his medical condition that would eventually become unavoidable. But the launch was still five weeks away, Eli was dealing with simulation failures and workplace sabotage, and Noah had promised himself he would wait until after the mission to complicate their relationship with his own problems.
Just tired. See you at 7?
Can't wait.
The drive to Eli's apartment—their apartment, he corrected himself—gave Noah time to practice the art of appearing normal that he'd perfected over three years of hiding his condition. By the time he used his new key to enter the space that would soon become home, he'd successfully compartmentalized the morning's episode into the category of manageable problems that didn't require immediate attention.
Eli's apartment was exactly what Noah had expected from someone who designed spacecraft for a living—clean lines, minimal decoration, and a kitchen equipped with precisely calibrated equipment that probably cost more than Noah's monthly salary. The refrigerator was stocked with ingredients that suggested Eli took nutrition seriously without being obsessive about it.
Noah was halfway through preparing risotto when Eli arrived, carrying a bottle of wine and wearing the slightly shell-shocked expression of someone who'd spent the day dealing with problems that shouldn't exist.
"That smells incredible," Eli said, setting down the wine and moving to stand behind Noah at the stove. "How was your day?"
"Routine," Noah replied, stirring the risotto with careful attention to texture and timing. "How was yours? You mentioned it was crazy."
Eli was quiet for a moment, and Noah could feel him processing whether to share the details of whatever workplace crisis had occurred. "Someone modified our backup navigation system without authorization. We spent the entire day trying to figure out whether it was sabotage or just sloppy programming."
"That sounds serious."
"It is. If someone is actively interfering with mission-critical systems..." Eli trailed off, clearly reluctant to voice the full implications. "It could delay the launch. Or worse."
Noah turned in Eli's arms, studying his face. The stress was evident in the tightness around Eli's eyes, the way his shoulders carried tension even in the relaxed environment of his own kitchen.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Eli's smile was small but genuine. "You're doing it. This—coming home to you cooking dinner, having someone to talk to who isn't invested in corporate politics—this is exactly what I need."
The words were intended as comfort, but they made Noah's chest tighten with guilt. Eli needed honesty and stability, and Noah was providing neither. He was hiding a progressive neurological condition that could compromise Eli's security clearance, planning to move in under false pretenses, and accepting emotional support that he couldn't reciprocate without revealing truths that would destroy everything.
"Eli," Noah began, then stopped, unsure how to continue.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just... I'm glad you're home."
It was true, if incomplete. And as they sat down to dinner together, Noah pushed away thoughts of morning episodes and government brothers and the growing weight of deception. For one evening, he could pretend that their biggest problem was backup navigation systems and workplace politics.
For one evening, he could be the person Eli thought he was—healthy, stable, and permanent enough to be worth loving.