The scooter's engine dies with a final sputter as I kill the ignition. Home. The word still feels strange sometimes—this place Sara and I built together after everything fell apart. After Mom and Dad. After the weight of their mission became mine alone.
I glance back at Maggie as she climbs off awkwardly, still wrapped in that dark covering cloth. Her movements are careful, uncertain. She's analyzing everything—I can see it in the way her eyes track across the house's exterior, cataloging details, trying to understand what kind of person lives here.
Always observing... not that I'm complaining.
"This is it," I say, pulling the kickstand down.
Her confusion is immediate. "This is... your home?"
"Yep. Sara and I share it." I swing my leg over and stand, stretching out the slight stiffness from the ride. "The gym's inside. Ground floor, back section. We converted it."
I unlock the front door, the familiar click of the deadbolt grounding me. The hallway stretches ahead—clean, minimal, exactly how we need it.
Maggie follows behind me, her footsteps quiet, hesitant. I can feel her taking in the space—the bookshelves crammed with research journals, the scattered pens on the coffee table, the plants Sara insists on keeping alive by the windows.
"Practical," she murmurs, almost to herself.
The door to the gym is at the end of the hall. I push it open, and the familiar smell hits me—rubber mats, metal weights, that particular scent of effort and discipline.
And there she is.
Sara's waiting near the mirrored wall, her back pressed against it. Black athletic shorts and grey sports bra, every line of her body speaking of controlled power. Her arms are crossed, weight shifted to one hip, and when her eyes find mine, that slow smile spreads across her face.
The smile that means trouble.
Here we go.
"Well, well. Look who finally shows up."
I stepped inside and pulled off my jacket, hung it on the hook by the door—same spot as always. "Morning, Sara."
"Morning?" She pushes off from the wall, each step deliberate, purposeful. The way she moves—it's always been like this. "You know what day it is, Laura?"
I keep my expression innocent. "Sunday?"
"Two days." Her smile widens, teeth showing. "Two days since you dumped the entire relocation job on me and ran off to play scientist."
Ah. So that's the excuse today.
"You handled it fine." I gave a careless shrug.
"Fine?" Sara planted herself a few feet away, hands on her hips. That grin turned predatory. "I moved seventeen boxes. Alone. Some of them furniture. Do you know how heavy a sofa is, Laura? Do you?"
She's totally lying.
"You're strong. You managed."
She's not actually angry we both know that. This is just our language. The way we communicate.
"Oh, I managed alright." Her eyes gleam with that familiar fire and mischief. The competitive spark that never quite died, even after she left MMA. Even after she chose this—chose me, instead of chasing her own glory. "And now, dear Laura, it's payback time."
My pulse quickens. Not from fear. From anticipation.
This is what I need. What I've needed all week.
The funding crisis has been eating at me. The pressure of keeping this project alive on scraps and side research, of maintaining Dad's dream with resources that never quite stretch far enough. I've been in my head too much. Lost in the weight of it.
Sara knows. She always knows.
"Let's spar," her voice all sweetness with a knife hidden underneath. "Right now. You and me. Let's see if all that 'research focus' has made you soft."
I feel my lips curve into a smile. "You sure you want to do this?"
"Oh, I'm very sure." She steps onto the training mat, bouncing lightly on her toes. Testing. Warming up. "Unless you're scared?"
The air shifts. Charges. This is our space. Our ritual. The place where everything else falls away and it's just us—two childhood friends who grew up throwing punches, who built strength together, who understand each other in ways words can't capture.
I walk forward, calm, unhurried. My wrists roll slowly, working out tension. My fingers flex, stretching.
I catch movement in my peripheral vision—Maggie has pressed herself against the wall near the doorway, her hands clutching that covering cloth. Her eyes are wide, darting between Sara and me, trying to understand what she's witnessing. She's frozen there, like a small animal caught between predators, not sure if she should stay or flee.
Good. Letting her watch this is the right choice. No point sugar-coating it anyway.
"Alright then," I say quietly, stepping onto the mat opposite Sara. "Let's go."
Sara's grin widens, fierce and delighted.
We begin to circle.
The movement is automatic—muscle memory built over years. Clockwise rotation, maintaining distance, staying light on the balls of our feet. Weight balanced. Ready.
Sara's eyes lock with mine. I know that look. She's reading me, calculating, trying to find the opening. The weakness.
She won't find one.
But god, I love that she keeps trying.
Her jab comes fast—testing my range, my reaction speed. I slip my head to the side, minimal movement. Just enough. Her fist cuts through empty air where my face was a fraction of a second ago.
Still fast. Good.
She tries again. Jab-cross, one-two. I step back, swaying away from both strikes. My footwork is automatic—smooth, balanced, always maintaining proper stance.
"Come on," Sara taunts, circling. "Are you going to actually engage, or just play defense all day?"
I smile. "Patience."
Always so impatient. That's her weakness. That's always been her weakness.
But it's also her strength. That fire. That refusal to give up even when she knows she can't win. That's what made her a champion. That's what makes her invaluable now.
She feints low, then comes high with a hook aimed at my temple. I raise my forearm, blocking cleanly. The impact reverberates through my arm—solid, controlled. She pulled it slightly. We're sparring, not fighting. There's a difference.
I counter—a quick straight punch toward her midsection.
Sara twists, taking the blow on her oblique instead of her solar plexus. Smart. Minimizing impact. She grunts but doesn't back away.
We separate, circling again.
She's warmed up now. Here it comes.
My mind is already clearer. The physical engagement pulling me out of the spiral of funding worries and project timelines and the crushing weight of Dad's expectations. This is what Sara does. This is why she's here.
Not just my project manager. To handle the logistics, the scheduling, the coordination—all the things that would overwhelm me if I tried to do them alone.
To keep me grounded. To remind me I have a body. To pull me back to earth when I'm drowning in my own head.
Sara presses forward with more aggression. A low kick toward my lead leg. I check it with my shin—the impact sharp and familiar, the sound echoing through the gym. Before she can fully recover, I shoot in with a quick combination. Jab, low body shot, pull back.
The body shot connects. I feel her abs flex to absorb the impact, hear her exhale sharply.
"There we go," Sara says, her grin widening. "Now you're awake."
The fog in my mind is clearing. Each strike, each movement, each moment of focus pulling me back into my body. Into the present. Away from the endless cycle of worry and calculation that's been consuming me for weeks.
We engage more seriously now.
The pace increases. Strikes flow faster. Sara throws a spinning back fist that I duck under, following with a leg sweep. She jumps over it, lands smoothly, immediately counters with a push kick that catches me square in the chest.
I stumble back a step, feeling the impact radiate through my sternum.
Nice.
My smile sharpens. Dangerous.
"Oh, now you're in trouble," Sara laughs, breathing harder.
You have no idea.
I move in, and now we're both fully engaged. No more testing. No more measuring. This is what we do. This is our language.
My combination flows—jab to draw her guard up, low kick to her lead leg, spinning back elbow aimed at her temple. She blocks the elbow but takes the kick. I see her grimace slightly.
She counters immediately. Right cross, left hook, knee aimed at my midsection. I block the cross, slip the hook, check the knee with my hands. We're in close now, grappling range, and for a moment we're chest to chest, both fighting for position.
I can feel her strength. The years she spent in MMA, honing her body into a weapon. The championships she won. The opponents she destroyed.
All of it shown through her strength.
That's what makes her perfect. She pushes me like no one else can.
We break apart, creating distance.
Both breathing harder now. A light sheen of sweat beginning to form.
"Good sprawl earlier," Sara admits, wiping her forehead.
"You're getting slow," I counter, but my tone is light. Teasing.
"Slow?!" Her eyes flash with fire.
There it is. There's my Sara.
She comes at me with a flurry—punches and kicks, mixing levels, changing rhythm. Testing my reactions. Pushing tempo. I defend, block, evade, staying just ahead of each strike. But Sara's relentless, maintaining pressure, not giving me time to counter.
Sara feints a high kick and shoots low, getting inside my guard. We crash to the mat, rolling, each trying to gain dominant position. The grappling is technical—a chess match played with limbs and body weight and years of understanding each other's movements.
She almost locks in an armbar, hyperextending my elbow. I feel the pressure building, the joint starting to strain. But I know her patterns. I roll through it, escape, reverse position.
Now I'm on top, passing her guard, moving toward mount.
Sara bridges hard, using her hips to buck me forward. She uses my moment of imbalance to sweep. We roll again.
Back to neutral. We separate, both breathing hard now.
"Okay," Sara says, standing and backing to the center. "Okay, you're not rusty. I'll give you that."
I stand as well, brushing off my leggings. "Did you actually think I'd slack off on training?"
"I hoped." She laughs, hands on her knees, catching her breath. "Would've made this easier."
"You know I train every morning. Even during intense research periods."
"I know. Doesn't mean I can't hope you'd gotten lazy."
We stand there for a moment, just breathing. Mutual respect evident in the space between us.
"Another round," I said.
She nodded in agreement and we started.
We're in close now, grappling range. Sara's testing my defense, I'm reading her movements. The rhythm is familiar, comfortable—years of sparring creating a language between us that doesn't need words.
This is why she's here. This is why I can do this.
Not just the mission. Not just the research. But staying human while pursuing something bigger than myself. Having someone who knows me well enough to challenge me. To pull me back when I drift too far into my own head.
Sara is my anchor. My reminder that I'm not alone in this.
That Dad's dream doesn't have to consume me the way it consumed him.
I turn slightly, catching sight of Maggie still standing near the doorway. She hasn't moved. Her eyes are wide, tracking every movement, absorbing everything.
This isn't just about the fighting. It's about trust. Partnership. The kind of bond that forms when you've known someone since childhood, when you've grown together, failed together, succeeded together.
That's what I need her to see. What she needs to understand if she's going to be part of this team.
We're not just researchers working on a project. We're—
Then my phone rings.
The sound cuts through the gym—sharp, jarring, wrong for a Sunday morning.
My focus shifts. Just for a second. Just a fraction of attention pulled toward that sound.
That's all Sara needs.
Her fist drives into my stomach—hard, precise, right below my ribs. A perfect body shot that I never saw coming because my mind was already elsewhere.
"Ow—!"
The air explodes out of my lungs. Pain radiates through my core—sharp, brutal, stealing my breath. My knees buckle instantly.
I drop.
Hit the mat hard, knees first, then my hands. Doubled over. Clutching my stomach.
"Ow... ow... ow..." The sounds escape without my permission. Small. Pained. Each attempt to breathe sending another spike of discomfort through my abdomen.
My diaphragm's spasming, refusing to cooperate. Can't get air in. Can't—
"Laura!" Maggie's voice, high and worried.
"She's fine," Sara says above me, completely unbothered. "Just learning an important lesson about staying focused."
I manage a slow breath. Then another. The sharp pain fades into a dull, persistent ache. I push myself up to sitting, still clutching my stomach, when I register it—the phone is still ringing.
I stood up slowly, one hand pressed against my abdomen. The ache pulses with each movement.
No. Not now.
Sara's expression shifts immediately. She sees it in my face—the sudden tension, the dread that floods through me.
Because I know who this is. I know what this means.
The only people who have this number and would call on a Sunday morning are related to the project.
I walk to the bench where I tossed my jacket, pulling the phone from the pocket. The screen lights up.
Director Leon - S.P.E.A.R.
My stomach drops.
This can't be good. Leon doesn't call unless it's important. Unless there's a problem. Unless—
I answer, keeping my voice steady. Professional. "Director Leon. Good morning."
Sara watching me. Reading my face. She knows something's wrong.
Behind her, Maggie shifts slightly.
"Professor Laura." Leon's voice is formal. Careful. The tone that means bad news. "I apologize for calling on a Sunday, but we need to discuss a... situation that's developed."
Here it comes.
I turn away from Sara and Maggie, walking a few steps toward the corner. Creating privacy. Bracing myself.
"What situation?"
"Mr. Ashford reached out to us yesterday. Directly to the oversight committee."
Ashford? The name registers dimly. One of the board members. A businessman. Major funder of defense projects. I've seen his name on documents but never met him personally.
"What did he want?"
Leon hesitates. Just a fraction of a second. But I hear it.
"He expressed concerns about potentially reducing his company's financial commitment to our programs. The funding you rely on for your atmospheric research—the legitimate, documented work that allows you to pursue your... other objectives—a significant portion comes through contracts his company holds."
The words are careful. Diplomatic. But the message is clear.
Blackmail.
I close my eyes. My hand presses harder against my stomach, the physical pain almost welcome. Something concrete to focus on while my world threatens to collapse.
My jaw clenches. "And what does Mr. Ashford want in exchange for maintaining his funding commitment?"
Another pause. Then: "His daughter has been attempting to gain a position with your research team. He's requested that we accommodate her. Strongly requested."
Of course. Of course it's about getting his daughter in.
Her name is Natasha Ashford, She is one of your student.
"She's my student. At the university." Not a question. A statement. Confirming what I already know.
"Yes. You'd know her. Natasha Ashford. Top of her class, I'm told. Nearly perfect grades."
I close my eyes.
Natasha Ashford.
The name triggers something. A memory. Classroom. Advanced Quantum Mechanics.
That girl. The one who always sits in the second row. Dark hair, intense eyes. The one who's always watching...
My eyes snap open.
The one who's always watching Maggie.
I've noticed her before. How could I not? The way she stares at Maggie with that laser focus. Not friendly. Not curious. Something else. Something competitive. Possessive, almost. Like Maggie's existence is a personal affront.
"Director, you understand what we're working on here. The sensitivity. The need for absolute trust and discretion. I can't just—"
"I understand completely, Professor. And under normal circumstances, we'd never pressure you on personnel decisions." His voice drops slightly. "But these aren't normal circumstances. Ashford was very clear. If his daughter isn't accommodated, he'll redirect his company's funding elsewhere. And we both know what that means for us."
The gym feels suddenly suffocating. The walls too close. The weight of this crushing down on my shoulders like a physical thing.
Dad, how did you do this for so long?
The endless politics. The compromises. The sacrificing of principles for the sake of keeping the work alive.
Behind me, I'm aware of Sara taking a step closer. Not speaking. Just... present. There. Trying to understand.
I take a slow breath. Force my voice to stay level. Professional.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then S.P.E.A.R. loses a major funding source. Which means budget cuts. Then your funding would be the first on the chopping block." Leon sounds tired. Apologetic. But firm. "I'm sorry, Professor. I wish I had better options to give you."
There it is. The ultimatum.
Take the girl. Compromise the team's security and discretion. Risk everything we've built.
Or lose the funding. Watch the mission die. Fail Dad's legacy.
"But if you do accept her, he's willing to directly fund your project. Not through S.P.E.A.R., not through contracted research—direct funding to Aurora Space Research."
My mind went blank. Direct funding?
"What… does that mean?" I asked, my voice hesitant but steady.
"Full operational budget. The entire mission—training, equipment, the launch itself. He'll fund everything." Leon's voice held no hesitation, as if he knew Mr. Ashford would keep his word.
"When would she start?" I asked.
There's no choice but to accept her.
"She has six months remaining in her current semester. After that, she'd be available full-time."
Six months. A delay. But inevitable.
"I'll need her complete academic records. Background check. Everything."
"Of course. I'll have our people send over everything we have on file."
"And Director?" My voice hardens slightly. "This doesn't set a precedent. I won't be blackmailed again. Make that clear."
"I'll convey your position." He pauses. "For what it's worth, Professor... I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to deal with this kind of pressure."
"But I do. Because this is what the work requires."
"Yes. Unfortunately."
The line goes quiet for a moment. Neither of us speaking. Just the weight of the compromise hanging between us.
"I'll send over the details," Leon finally says. "And Professor? I hope this works out. Your research is too important to lose."
"Thank you, Director."
I end the call.
Stand there for a moment, phone in hand, staring at the gym wall.
Natasha Ashford.
The name means nothing to me. Just another privileged student with a powerful father who thinks money can buy anything. Including a place on a project she knows nothing about.
But what choice do I have?
Without funding, there is no project. Without the project, Dad's work dies. Everything Mom and Dad sacrificed for, everything they gave their lives to—gone.
I can't let that happen.
Even if it means compromising. Even if it means bringing someone in who wasn't chosen for merit but for politics.
I turn back toward Sara and Maggie.
Sara's watching me with that look—concerned, assessing, ready to support whatever decision I've made. Maggie's eyes are wide, confused, trying to understand what just happened.
And despite everything—despite the blackmail, despite the compromise, despite the crushing weight of continuing this mission—
I feel a smile starting to form.
Because we got it.
We actually got it.
The project survives. The work continues. Dad's dream stays alive.
Full operational budget. Direct funding to Aurora Space Research. Not through S.P.E.A.R., not through contracted research—everything. Training, equipment, the launch itself. Everything.
I drop the phone onto the bench and raise my fist in the air.
"WE GOT IT!!!!"
The words burst out of me, loud and unrestrained. Pure relief and triumph and joy that I can't contain, that explodes out of me like pressure finally released.
Sara blinks. Stares at me. "What?"
"The funding!" I'm grinning now, can't help it. The smile splits my face, genuine and uncontrolled. "We got the funding! Full operational budget! Direct funding to Aurora!"
"But you looked—" Sara gestures at me, confused, almost accusatory. "You looked like someone died! You were holding your stomach like you were going to throw up! I thought—"
"There were conditions. Compromises." I'm still grinning, feeling the weight lifting off my shoulders even as a new weight settles in its place. "But we got it. Full operational budget. Not maintenance level, not contracted research—direct funding."
Sara's expression shifts—confusion melting into understanding, then into relieved, almost hysterical laughter.
"You—" She shakes her head, hands on her hips, that grin spreading across her face. "You scared the shit out of me! I thought they were pulling the plug! I thought everything was over!"
"They almost did. But we worked it out."
"Worked it out?" Sara walks toward me, still shaking her head. "Laura, you looked like you were about to collapse! What the hell were the conditions?"
I glance at Maggie. She's stepped fully away from the wall now, drawn closer by the energy shift, by my sudden celebration. But there's still confusion in her eyes. Uncertainty.
She doesn't know yet.
Doesn't know that her past is about to follow her here.
"Tell you later," I say to Sara, my voice lowering slightly. "Right now... we celebrate. We got the funding. The mission continues."
Sara stares at me for another moment, reading something in my face that I'm not saying. But she knows me well enough not to push. Not right now.
Instead, she starts laughing again. The sound fills the gym, echoing off the walls, pure and unrestrained.
"You're insane. You know that? Absolutely insane."
"Maybe."
My gut keeps telling me that girl means trouble.
But what matters is, we survived. The mission continues. Dad's work lives on.
Maggie takes another hesitant step forward. "Is... is everything okay?"
I look at her. Really look at her. This girl I pulled away from that university. This girl I promised a fresh start to. This girl who trusted me enough to leave everything behind and follow me here.
This girl who has no idea that in six months, the person who might be one of those who made her university life hell is going to walk through our doors.
Should I actually let her in?
The thought cuts through my celebration like a knife.
Am I making a mistake?
Natasha Ashford. The girl who watches Maggie like she's prey. The girl whose father just blackmailed me into giving her a position on this team.
I don't know her. Don't know if she's trustworthy. Don't know if she'll be a help or a disaster.
All I know is that she watches Maggie with an intensity that makes me uneasy.
And I just agreed to bring her here.
"Everything's fine, Maggie," I say, forcing my smile to stay in place. "More than fine. We just got great news about the project."
She nods slowly, still processing. Still trying to understand.
Sara walks over and punches my shoulder lightly. "Next time, lead with 'we got the funding' instead of looking like the world's ending."
"Where's the fun in that?"
She rolls her eyes but she's smiling too.
And for this moment—right now, in this gym, with Sara beside me and Maggie with unknown potential and the mission still alive—
Everything is exactly where it needs to be.
Even if I can't shake the nagging doubt in the back of my mind.
Even if I can't shake the feeling that I just made a decision I'm going to regret.
The questions follow me.
Questions I can't answer.
Not yet.
Not for six months.
***