I had never seen Dylan this quiet.
He stood there, frozen, staring at the smoking engine like it had just insulted his mother. Behind him, our freshly welded rocket gave off a soft crackling sound—like bacon in a pan, if bacon could explode and murder you.
"I think... maybe... we should've used the *non*-discounted fuel stabilizer," he finally said.
I blinked. "You mean the one that *wasn't* half off because the label had 'may cause combustion in emotions'?"
He nodded solemnly. "That one, yes."
I sighed and took out my notepad. Rocket Test #12: Exploded. Again.
We were running out of spare parts. And possibly oxygen. And possibly sanity.
——
Let me rewind for a second.
In the past seven days, Dylan and I had:
- "Borrowed" a freezer from his mom to store liquid nitrogen.
- Got electrocuted twice.
- Accidentally launched a hamster (he survived, sort of).
- Burned through *three* pairs of socks trying to invent flame-proof shoelaces (don't ask).
All in the name of love.
Or, well, *his* love.
Because Dylan had promised me the Moon. And I, in a moment of pure girlfriend delusion, had said:
"Sure babe, let's build a rocket and go there."
——
I tossed him a water bottle. "Here. Hydrate before you emotionally combust too."
He caught it and muttered, "We're so screwed."
I sat beside him, the gravel beneath us digging into my butt like cosmic punishment. "Look, we've failed twelve times. But failure means progress! Thomas Edison failed a thousand times before inventing the lightbulb."
"Yeah, and he didn't blow up his neighbor's goat."
"Technically that goat *wandered in*. Not our fault."
He groaned and laid flat on the ground. The stars above blinked like they were laughing at us.
"Maybe we should quit," he whispered.
——
"Nope," I said. "We're past the point of no return."
He looked at me.
I gestured to the backyard. "We have a rocket skeleton. A bunker full of caffeine. And an internet search history that has *definitely* put us on a government watchlist. If we stop now, what was it all for?"
He blinked. "Love?"
I smiled. "And also spite. But mostly love."
He stared at me. Then, slowly, sat back up.
"...Okay. One last test. If we fail, we build a submarine instead. I hear Mars has oceans. Probably."
——
Just as we stood up, a van pulled up in front of our garage. It was midnight. The driver wore sunglasses.
He stepped out, holding a clipboard.
"Delivery for... *The Astro-Lovers Anonymous Lab*?" he read aloud.
Dylan and I exchanged glances.
"That's... us," I said hesitantly.
He handed me a box. Then drove off like he was being chased by debt.
We opened it.
Inside: a shiny, polished ion thruster core—the exact model that cost $24,000 and wasn't even legal to import without a government license.
Dylan's eyes widened. "Did you buy this?!"
"No! Did you?!"
We stared at the box.
Then, a letter fluttered out:
"Heard about your dream. Thought you could use this. — A Friend from the Stars."
——
"Do you think... it's alien?" I asked.
Dylan picked up the core. It hummed softly in his hands.
"No," he said slowly. "But whoever sent this... knows what we're doing. And probably how to finish it."
I leaned closer to the box. There was a smell—like ozone and cinnamon toast.
"Do we use it?" I asked.
He smiled.
"Absolutely. Worst-case scenario? It kills us instantly. Best-case? We get to the Moon."