Let me start from the beginning.

Nina is a genius. Not the "she's smart" kind of genius — the actual, terrifying, reality-breaking kind. PhD in quantum physics at twenty-five. Published papers that made other scientists question their life choices. She worked in a lab that didn't officially exist, funded by people who didn't officially have money.

I'm a graphic designer. I make logos. We met at a coffee shop when she spilled equations on my laptop.

"I'm so sorry," she said, frantically wiping formulas off my keyboard. "I was calculating probability matrices and I didn't see—"

"It's fine. I needed a new laptop anyway."

She bought me coffee. Then dinner. Then somehow we were dating, and I still don't understand how I got so lucky.

For two years, she never told me what she actually worked on. "Classified" was her favorite word. I didn't push. Everyone deserves their secrets.

Then, three weeks ago, she came home with wild eyes and shaking hands.