The warmth came first—soft, persistent, spreading across my cheek like invisible fingers tracing patterns on my skin. It should have woken me immediately. It should have triggered alarm bells.
Instead, I lay there in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness, my mind still tangled in the remnants of a dream I couldn't quite remember. The sensation registered as pleasant at first—a gentle heat that seemed to seep through my eyelids, painting the darkness behind them in shades of orange and red.
Warm. Nice. Comfortable...
My body felt heavy, sinking into the unfamiliar mattress. The sheets smelled different here laundered but not ours yet. Everything was still too new, too strange. But the warmth... the warmth felt almost comforting in its persistence.
Then my brain caught up.
Wait. Warm? Sensation? On my face? In MY room?
The realization hit like ice water dumped over my head.
The curtain. The window. Oh god, I forgot to—
"OWOWOWOW!" I bolted upright, hands flying to my face as the stinging sensation finally broke through the pleasant fog. My cheeks burned—not the gentle warmth of moments before, but sharp, insistent heat that made my eyes water. The pain wasn't terrible, but it was there, undeniable, a reminder of my carelessness.
I forgot everything! How could I be so stupid?
I scrambled out of bed, my feet tangling briefly in the sheets before I managed to kick free. The wooden floor was cool against my bare feet—a sharp contrast to the burning sensation on my face. I stumbled toward the small mirror I'd placed on the table yesterday, one of the first things I'd unpacked out of necessity more than vanity.
My reflection stared back at me in the morning light.
Skin so pale it almost seemed to glow in the golden sunbeam—that familiar translucent quality that had always made me different—now marked with an unmistakable pink flush across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. Like someone had taken a paintbrush dipped in rose paint and swept it across my face in careless, uneven strokes. Not terrible. Not the angry red blistering that came so easily, that I'd feared in that first moment of panic. But definitely there. Definitely visible.
"Thank god," I breathed, touching my face gently with trembling fingers. The skin felt warm under my touch, tender and slightly tight, but not blistered or swollen. Just few minutes. That's all it had taken. Few minutes of direct morning sun through an uncovered window, and my skin had reacted like I'd spent an hour at noon. I'd gotten lucky this time. "Could've been so much worse."
I pressed my fingertips carefully along my cheekbone, testing. A dull ache radiated from the contact, but nothing sharp. Nothing that spoke of serious damage. Just mild sunburn—uncomfortable, embarrassing, but manageable. The price of carelessness when your skin had no melanin to protect it.
The room around me was still unfamiliar in that way new spaces always are—mine, yes, but not yet mine. The morning light streaming through that treacherous uncovered window painted everything in liquid gold: the bare cream-colored walls I hadn't had time to decorate, the half-unpacked cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner with my handwriting scrawled across them Books - Physics, Books - Math, Clothes - Winter, the simple wooden furniture that had come with the house.
This was my room. All mine. Mom and Dad had claimed the master bedroom—"You need your space" they said and given me this. Slightly larger than my old room back home, with a window that faced east that clearly a double-edged sword, and a door that locked. Privacy. Independence. A fresh start.
The table had been here when we'd arrived yesterday afternoon, along with the bed frame and a small wardrobe with one door that didn't quite close properly.
Her mother's house. Every corner holds memories she can't forget.
Sara's words from yesterday echoed in my mind, adding weight to the space around me. This room had history. This entire house was soaked in someone else's past—Laura's past—and now we were living in it.
I touched my face again, wincing at the sting, trying to ground myself in the present.
Stupid. So stupid. First night in a new place and I already—
Then the second realization crashed over me like a wave of ice water, washing away all thoughts of sunburn and memories and borrowed furniture.
She asked me to be ready by six.
The sun is UP.
The sun is ALREADY UP.
My eyes snapped to the window, taking in the angle of the light, the warmth of it, the way it painted the room in shades that spoke of mid-morning rather than early dawn.
"Oh no. Oh no no no no—"
I bolted from the room without thinking, my feet pounding against the hallway floor. The wood here was slightly worn, creaking in places—the third plank from my door groaned loudly under my weight, and I made a mental note to avoid it at night. The hallway stretched before me, narrow and dim compared to my sunlit room, leading to the main hall.
How late am I? How angry is she going to be? First day of training and I've already—
The hall opened up before me as I burst through, my momentum carrying me forward in a graceless rush. My hair was a mess, I knew—tangled from sleep, probably sticking up in odd directions. My oversized sleep shirt hung off one shoulder. I was barefoot, my face sunburned and panicked.
Not exactly the impression I wanted to make.
I skidded to a stop.
Mom and Dad were there, sitting at the small dining table near the kitchen doorway. Two cups of steaming coffee sat between them, tendrils of spiced steam curling upward in the morning light.
And... Laura.
She sat across from them, perfectly composed, like she'd been awake for hours. Probably had been. She wore athletic clothes—a fitted black tank top and grey leggings that looked both practical and somehow elegant on her. Her grey hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, not a strand out of place.
A small cup of coffee sat in front of her, mostly untouched.
Dad noticed me first. His eyes flicked to my face, taking in the pink flush across my cheeks and nose. A grin spread across his lips—slow, teasing, the same grin he'd worn when I was little and did something clumsy.
"Nice tan, kid." His tone was light, playful, with that edge of fatherly amusement that made my face heat up even more. "Very fashionable. The latest look?"
I felt my face burning hotter now—this time from embarrassment rather than sunburn. The pink probably deepened to red. Great. Just great.
"Dad—" I started, my voice coming out small and defensive.
Mom swatted his arm gently, her hand making a soft thwap against his sleeve. "Stop teasing her." But she was smiling too, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her lips pressed together like she was trying not to laugh.
They were both enjoying this way too much.
Laura's eyes found mine across the room. Her expression shifted—not angry, exactly, but not pleased either. Something between amusement and annoyance flickered across her face. A faint smirk played at her lips, like she was deciding whether to scold me or let it slide.
"Look who decides to show up."
The words were light, but there was an edge beneath them. Not harsh—just pointed enough to make me squirm.
"Sorry..." My voice came out small, breathless from running and panic. "I overslept. I forgot to—I didn't close the curtain and the sun woke me up but by then it was already—" I was babbling now, words tumbling over each other. "I'm sorry, I—"
"It's okay." She stood smoothly, unfolding from her seat with a fluid grace that made the movement look effortless. She set down her cup—the soft clink of ceramic against wood punctuating her words. "Go freshen up. Let's eat breakfast and go to the gym."
I blinked, caught off guard by how quickly she'd moved past my tardiness. "What about the lab?"
Her grey eyes fixed on me, steady and unyielding. The morning light streaming through the kitchen window caught them, making them look almost silver for a moment. "Body and mind condition are more important to maintain pace when it comes to research."
Her tone was firm but not harsh—measured, matter of fact, like she was stating a fundamental law of physics. "Don't ever try to skip it. Not on my watch."
There was no room for argument in her voice. This wasn't a suggestion or a gentle recommendation. It wasn't something we'd negotiate or adjust based on how I felt. This was a requirement—non-negotiable, absolute, as fundamental to her vision of training as the research itself.
I found myself nodding quickly, almost automatically. "Okay. I'll... I'll be right back."
As I turned to head back to my room, I caught Mom's expression out of the corner of my eye—relief mixed with something else. Pride, maybe. Or gratitude. That soft, trembling look she got when something good happened that she hadn't quite believed would happen. The look that said someone is looking after my daughter.
Dad just smiled into his coffee, his eyes warm and approving, hiding his amusement behind another sip.
I rushed back down the creaky hallway, my heart still racing—not from panic this time, but from something else entirely. Something I couldn't quite name.
For the first time in years, someone was demanding I take care of myself.
And somehow... that didn't feel suffocating.
It felt like being seen.
Ten minutes later, I emerged wearing the most "moveable" clothes I owned—an oversized grey hoodie that hung past my hips and black joggers that were baggy enough to hide my shape entirely. My hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, still slightly damp from washing my face. Water droplets clung to a few escaped strands near my temples.
And draped over my arm—the long, dark covering cloth I always carried. For outside. For sun. For survival.
The fabric was worn soft from years of constant use, dark blue-grey and lightweight enough to breathe through but thick enough to shield. UV-protective weave, expensive but necessary. I'd carried it everywhere since I was old enough to understand why my skin reacted differently, why I couldn't be like other children playing in the sun. It had become as essential as my wallet or keys—something I checked for automatically before leaving any enclosed space, something I'd panic without.
Laura's eyes flicked to it immediately. Her expression didn't change—no judgment, no surprise, no awkward questions. But something shifted in her gaze. Understanding, maybe. Recognition. Like she'd expected it and had already made her peace with what it meant.
She didn't comment on it.
She just nodded once. "That'll work for now. We'll get you proper workout clothes later."
A brief pause, her eyes assessing my covered form with understanding. "UV-protective gear. Full coverage, but breathable. You won't need to cover up so much at the gym—it's indoors, controlled lighting. No windows in the training area. Zero UV exposure."
The words settled over me like a promise. Controlled lighting. No windows. Zero UV.
She'd thought about it. About me. About what I'd need to feel safe. About skin that couldn't tolerate what others took for granted.
Mom had set out breakfast during my absence—simple buttermilk pancakes, still warm from the griddle, their surfaces spotted with golden-brown and glistening with melted butter. A bowl of thick, Greek yogurt sat beside them, along with small dishes of strawberry jam and fresh maple syrup. The smell made my stomach growl—vanilla and cinnamon, warm butter, the sweet richness of maple.
It looked like a celebration spread out before me, warm and inviting, as if the morning itself was worth marking.
Laura ate with us, casual and comfortable, like she'd done this a hundred times before. Her movements were efficient, practiced—someone who ate for fuel rather than pleasure, but who still appreciated good food when it appeared.
She asked Dad about his plans for the recommendation letter, her tone genuinely interested. "Have you decided when you'll submit it? The Third Division prefers applications early in the quarter."
Dad nodded, his eyes still a bit dazed. "I'll look into it this week. Still can't quite believe..." He trailed off, touching the pocket where he'd tucked the envelope.
Laura's smile was soft. "Believe it. They need someone like you."
She listened to Mom talk about settling into the kitchen, about the spices she'd brought and the ones she'd need to buy locally, about the small vegetable garden she'd spotted in the backyard and whether it was still usable.
"The soil's good," Laura said. "The previous... the person who lived here before grew tomatoes and coriander every summer. You're welcome to use it."
Mom's face lit up at that, already planning, already imagining what she'd plant. The conversation drifted easily—about growing seasons and whether the winters here were too harsh for certain herbs, about the farmer's market downtown that Laura mentioned.
I watched them talk, the way Mom leaned forward, interested, the way Laura answered with quiet certainty, and something settled in my chest. This was good. This felt right.
When we finished—when the last pancake had been divided, the last of the coffee drained from our cups—Laura stood. She gathered her plate and cup, moving toward the kitchen to wash them.
"Wait," Mom protested, rising quickly. "You're our guest, please—"
"It's okay," Laura said simply, already at the sink. "I don't mind."
Mom smiled, joining her at the counter. "Then let me help you."
They worked side by side in easy silence—Laura washing, Mom drying and putting away. There was something comfortable about it, the quiet rhythm of two people moving around a kitchen like they'd done it a hundred times before. Mom said something low that made Laura smile, and Laura nodded, handing over a dripping plate.
Normal. Easy. Like we were already family.
Like she'd slipped into this space we occupied and found it fit her perfectly.
When the last dish was dried and stacked, Laura folded the kitchen towel neatly and turned to me.
"Ready?"
I nodded, my stomach fluttering with nerves I couldn't quite suppress. The covering cloth felt heavy over my arm.
"Don't worry," she said, reading my face easily, her tone softening. "We're starting slow.
Just assessment today. I need to see where you are, what we're working with."
She turned to my parents, her posture straightening into something more professional.
"Gym first, then I'll show her the lab—just a basic introduction. I'll return her by evening."
Dad smiled warmly. "Perfect timing then. You're joining us for dinner, remember?"
Laura's expression softened that guarded look slipping away for just a moment. "Right. Dinner." A pause. "We can talk then."
Laura nodded. "All of it. I'll explain everything." Her grey eyes moved between them. "You deserve to know exactly what you're agreeing to."
Mom nodded, relief and apprehension crossing her face in equal measure. "We'd like that."
Dad raised his cup slightly. "Looking forward to it."
Laura's expression warmed, something almost vulnerable flickering across her face before she pushed it down. "Me too."
I draped the long covering cloth over myself as we stepped outside—dark fabric that shielded my arms, neck, and most of my face from the morning sun. The material settled over me like a familiar shadow, blocking out the world, creating a barrier between my skin and the light.
Mom and Dad stood at the door, waving as we stepped off the porch. The morning air was already warming, the sun climbing higher, promising heat later.
I waved back, my hand barely visible beneath the cloth, just a small movement of fabric.
Then Laura disappeared around the side of the house.
A moment later, I heard it—a sputtering, rattling engine sound that made me pause mid-step.
Putt-putt-putt-putt...
The noise grew louder, irregular, punctuated by occasional coughs and wheezes that sounded almost desperate. Like machinery protesting its own existence.
She came back riding an old scooter—faded red paint, chipped and peeling in places to reveal rust underneath, with a seat that looked like it had seen better days. Many better days. The leather was cracked and worn, patched in one spot with what looked like duct tape. The engine coughed and wheezed like it was struggling to stay alive, protesting every rotation.
I stared, unable to hide my surprise.
This was... this was Laura's scooter? The mysterious professor, the woman who carried herself with such quiet grace and authority—she rode this?
Laura pulled up beside me, one foot on the ground to balance the rattling machine. She patted the seat behind her with casual affection, completely unbothered by the ancient, protesting vehicle she was riding.
"Hop on."
I blinked, still processing. "That's... your scooter?"
"Yep." She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, her tone carrying not even a hint of embarrassment or self-consciousness. "Still runs. Mostly."
Mostly?
The word echoed in my head as the scooter made another sputtering sound, as if actively disagreeing with her assessment.
I glanced back at Mom and Dad. Dad was grinning hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking, trying desperately not to laugh out loud. Mom had her hand pressed to her lips, eyes sparkling with barely suppressed amusement.
They were both enjoying this way too much.
Laura noticed my hesitation, following my gaze back to my parents. Her lips curved slightly. "It's more reliable than it looks. Promise."
The scooter chose that exact moment to emit another protesting sputter—putt-COUGH-putt-wheeze—as if the universe itself was calling her a liar.
I swallowed, weighing my options. Walk? No, I didn't even know where the gym was. Refuse? After oversleeping and making her wait? That seemed worse somehow.
I carefully climbed on behind her, pulling the covering cloth tighter around myself, adjusting it to make sure everything was secure. The seat was worn and uneven beneath me, the duct tape patch slightly sticky against my joggers. I could feel every imperfection through the thin material.
"Hold on," Laura said calmly, her hands steady on the handlebars.
I hesitated, then wrapped my arms lightly around her waist. She felt solid beneath my touch, steady and warm—completely different from the rattling, uncertain machine we were sitting on. Real. Grounded. Safe.
The engine revved—putt-putt-putt-PUTT—and we lurched forward with all the grace of a dying mechanical beast.
Mom and Dad waved again as we sputtered down the road, Dad still fighting his laughter, Mom's smile bright and genuine. The old scooter protested every meter, its engine creating a symphony of mechanical suffering that echoed down the quiet street.
But Laura rode it with confidence, navigating the turns smoothly despite the vehicle's complaints, her posture relaxed and easy.
***