The OrionX media reception was held in the company's executive conference center, a space designed to impress investors and reassure the public that their tax dollars were supporting a professional operation worthy of reaching for the stars. Crystal chandeliers cast elegant light over displays showcasing the Saturn probe, while servers circulated with champagne and appetizers that probably cost more than Noah's monthly rent.
Noah stood near the buffet table, wearing his best shirt and trying to blend into the background while Eli navigated conversations with reporters, board members, and the kind of aerospace industry luminaries whose names appeared in textbooks about space exploration. They'd agreed that Noah would attend as moral support rather than as an interview subject, given the complications that media attention could create for both of them.
"You must be Noah," a woman's voice said behind him. Noah turned to find Valeria Cortez approaching with the confident smile of someone who made a living getting people to tell her things they shouldn't. "I'm Valeria, from CNN. Eli mentioned you during our interview."
Noah felt his stomach tighten with anxiety. "All good things, I hope."
"Very good things. He spoke about having someone in his life who keeps him grounded, who reminds him that there's a world beyond aerospace engineering." Valeria's tone was friendly but professionally curious. "That must be a challenging role, dating someone whose work involves quite literally reaching for the stars."
The question was phrased as casual conversation, but Noah recognized it as the kind of fishing expedition that journalists used to extract personal information without seeming intrusive. He glanced across the room at Eli, who was deep in conversation with a group of NASA administrators and completely unaware that his personal life was being investigated twenty feet away.
"Eli's work is incredible," Noah said carefully. "I'm just glad I get to support someone who's trying to push the boundaries of human knowledge."
"And what do you do? Professionally, I mean."
"I'm a pastry chef. Nothing as exciting as spacecraft design, but I enjoy working with my hands."
Valeria made a mental note, and Noah caught the slight shift in her expression that suggested she was filing away information for later use. "Interesting transition from..." She paused, consulting notes on her phone. "From pilot training, according to my research."
The words hit Noah like ice water. Valeria had been investigating his background, which meant she knew about his medical discharge, possibly about his condition, definitely about aspects of his life that he'd carefully kept separate from his relationship with Eli.
"I'm sorry?" Noah managed.
"Travis Air Force Base, pilot training program. You were in the program for eight months before receiving a medical discharge." Valeria's tone remained conversational, but her eyes carried the focused attention of someone who had found an interesting story angle. "That must have been disappointing, giving up flying to work in food service."
Noah felt the familiar signs of an impending episode—tunnel vision, racing heart, the sense that the world was tilting sideways in ways that had nothing to do with gravity or orbital mechanics. The stress of discovery, combined with the bright lights and social pressure of the media event, was triggering exactly the kind of neurological episode that he'd been trying to hide.
"Excuse me," he said, moving toward the nearest bathroom while trying to maintain normal walking speed despite the increasing disorientation.
But Valeria followed, her journalistic instincts apparently triggered by his obvious distress. "Are you feeling alright? You look pale."
Noah made it three more steps before his coordination failed completely. He stumbled into a display case, sending promotional materials scattering across the floor while camera flashes exploded around him like small stars. The episode lasted only seconds, but in a room full of journalists and photographers, seconds were enough to capture images that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Strong hands helped him to a chair while concerned voices asked if he needed medical attention. Through the fog of post-episode confusion, Noah could see Eli pushing through the crowd, his face carrying the kind of panic that suggested he understood exactly what had just happened and what it might mean.
"I'm fine," Noah said, though his voice sounded strange to his own ears. "Just tripped. Too much champagne on an empty stomach."
It was a lie that might have been convincing under normal circumstances, but the combination of camera phones and professional journalists meant that his collapse had been documented from multiple angles. Within hours, the images would be analyzed, compared, and probably identified by someone with medical knowledge as something more serious than simple clumsiness.
"Maybe we should go," Eli said quietly, his hand on Noah's shoulder providing both support and comfort.
"Good idea," Valeria agreed, but her tone suggested she was already formulating questions that would be much more direct than casual conversation about career transitions.
As they left the media reception, Noah felt the weight of exposure settling over him like atmospheric pressure. The careful separation between his medical condition and Eli's professional life had been shattered by a few seconds of neurological instability and the wrong kind of photographic attention.
In the car, driving back to their apartment while Noah's vision gradually returned to normal, they sat in the kind of silence that carried more meaning than conversation.
"How long has she been investigating my background?" Noah asked finally.
"I don't know. She mentioned wanting to do a comprehensive profile, but I thought that meant professional background, not personal history."
"She knows about the pilot training. She knows about the medical discharge." Noah leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes against the lingering headache that always followed episodes. "It's only a matter of time before she figures out the rest."
Eli was quiet for several blocks, processing the implications of media attention focused on aspects of their relationship that could trigger security reviews, federal investigations, and the kind of scrutiny that could destroy both their careers.
"We'll figure it out," he said finally, though his voice carried more hope than confidence.
"Will we? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like everything we've been trying to protect is about to become very public, very quickly."
The saturn probe launch was twenty-eight days away. Twenty-eight days to figure out how to manage a personal crisis that was becoming a public relations nightmare, how to maintain security clearances that depended on personal stability, and how to preserve a relationship that was built on incomplete information but sustained by genuine love.
Outside their car windows, the California night stretched endlessly dark, punctuated by stars that seemed impossibly distant and coldly indifferent to human ambition and the complications that came from reaching too far beyond your own gravitational limitations.