Center of Gravity

Over the next two weeks, Oliver’s life bifurcated. By day, he was the diligent researcher, logging hours in the Quantum Lab, submitting progress reports to Dean Vance. By night, he was a conspirator.

He watched Bex train in the old gymnasium on the edge of campus. He sat in the bleachers with his laptop, ostensibly running simulations, but mostly, he watched her.

He had called her chaotic. He was wrong.

Bex on the ground was a mess of fidgeting energy and impulsive comments. Bex in the air was a marvel of physics.

She hung from the silks suspended from the rafters, forty feet up. She moved with a fluidity that defied the bone and muscle underneath. She wrapped the fabric around her waist, inverted, and dropped—stopping inches from the mat with a precise, calculated friction lock.

It wasn't reckless. It was mastery.

"You're staring," Bex called out, hanging upside down, her blue hair dangling like stalactites.

"I am observing the angular momentum," Oliver lied, blushing.

"Come up here," she dared him. "Test the rig."

"I have zero desire to be inverted."

"Coward."

She lowered herself to the ground and walked over to him, wiping chalk from her hands onto her pants. She smelled like rosin and sweat and peppermint gum.

"We need a rooftop test," she said, drinking from a water bottle. "The gym is climate controlled. The tower won't be. I need to know how the silks handle the wind."

"Tonight?" Oliver asked.

"Tonight. The Arts building roof. It’s flat, accessible, and high enough to simulate the wind shear."

Three hours later, they were on the roof of the Arts building. The wind was biting, whipping snow across the gravel surface.

Oliver was shivering in his parka. Bex was wearing a thermal bodysuit, setting up a portable rig attached to a ventilation unit.

"Wind speed is fifteen miles per hour," Oliver shouted over the gale, checking his anemometer. "It’s suboptimal, Bex!"

"It's perfect!" she yelled back. "Real world conditions!"

She clipped into the line. She walked to the edge of the roof.

"Watch the anchor!" she shouted.

She leaned back, letting the silk take her weight. She hung over the edge of the building, six stories of empty air beneath her.

Oliver watched the anchor point on the vent. It held. The physics worked.

"Okay!" Oliver yelled. "Test confirmed! Come back in!"

"Just a second!" Bex laughed. She spun, enjoying the vertigo.

Then, the wind shifted. A sudden gust slammed into her, swinging her wide. The silk rope whipped sideways.

It caught Oliver’s leg.

He hadn't accounted for his own position relative to the vector of the swing. The silk wrapped around his ankle and yanked.

Oliver slipped on a patch of black ice. His feet went out from under him. He slid toward the edge.

"Ollie!" Bex screamed.

He clawed at the gravel, but the ice was unforgiving. He slid over the lip of the roof.

For a terrifying second, he was weightless. He saw the campus lights spinning below him. He calculated the terminal velocity. He knew he was dead.

Then, a hand grabbed his wrist.

Bex.

She had swung back in, wrapping her legs around the rigging line, hanging upside down over the abyss, and she had caught him.

Her grip was iron. Her face was inches from his, upside down, her eyes wide with terror and focus.

"I got you," she grunted, the strain evident in her neck. "I got you, Finch. Don't move."

She swung them both toward the building. With a heave of core strength that seemed impossible, she slammed him against the brick wall of the parapet.

Oliver scrambled, finding purchase on a window ledge, and hauled himself back over the lip of the roof. Bex vaulted up right after him.

They collapsed onto the snowy gravel, tangled together, gasping for air.

Oliver’s heart was hammering so hard he thought it would crack his ribs. He was alive. The probability model had failed, and he was alive.

Bex was on top of him, her hands checking his face, his arms. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"

Oliver looked up at her. Her nose was red from the cold. Her pupils were blown wide with adrenaline.

"You caught me," he whispered.

"I calculated the load," she breathed, a shaky smile touching her lips. "Plus one nerd."

The adrenaline shifted. The terror morphed into something else—something hot and sharp.

Oliver didn't think. He didn't calculate. He reached up and grabbed the lapels of her thermal suit. He pulled her down.

Their foreheads touched. He could feel her breath on his lips.

"You're crazy," he murmured.

"And you're shaking," she whispered back.

She didn't kiss him. She waited. She waited for him to close the gap. She was giving him the variable.

Oliver looked at her lips. He wanted to. God, he wanted to surrender to the chaos.

But the fear washed back in. The image of the ground spinning below him. The realization of how close he had come to the end.

He let go of her jacket. He pushed her back, gently.

"We need to go," Oliver said, his voice trembling. "That was... that was too close."

Bex sat back on her heels. The disappointment in her eyes cut deeper than the wind.

"Right," she said, standing up and brushing the snow off her legs. "Too close. Let's pack up."

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