13. Anouk
Anouk
Spring in San Francisco is indecisive—fog in the morning, sunshine by noon, wind that tries to steal my scarf by five—but today feels charmed.
Or maybe that’s just me because I’m walking toward the California Academy of Sciences, and Luther is waiting by the entrance, leaning against a railing with his hands in his pockets, looking like a man who shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public without a warning label.
Wow! He’s so hot!
He’s in jeans and a dress shirt, what he usually wears to work, but the shirt is unbuttoned, and underneath is a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Instead of dress shoes, he’s got sneakers on. His hair is rumpled. His blue eyes are brighter because the sun is clear. The man is handsome. Sinfully so.
He straightens when he sees me.
“Hi,” he says, a little breathless.
“Hi,” I echo, definitely not just a little breathless.
We walk inside together, as I tell myself to breathe, to act normal, to remember he is my boss and this is not a date, no matter what the butterflies in my stomach or Finn think.
“So, what you’re saying is that he asked about your plans and then said he wants to join you?”
“Yep.”
“That sounds like a date,” Finn declared.
“No. He said he was interested in exoplanet atmospheric signatures using spectroscopic mapping.”
He stares at me like I’ve switched languages. “Annie, no one is interested in exoplanet whatever.”
“He said he was and—”
“It’s a date.”
“It’s not.”
But when Luther’s hand brushes against my back as we pass through the dim hallway toward the planetarium, guiding me gently, the butterflies in my stomach scream, “Yes, this is a date,” in twelve different dialects.
The Morrison Planetarium is one of my favorite places in the city. The massive dome, the soft darkness, the illusion that you’re suspended inside a starfield—it loosens something tight in my chest that almost nothing else can reach.
When I was a child, I used to look up at the night sky and try to count the stars, even though I knew I’d never get close. The sky was endless and mercifully indifferent to everything happening in my life.
When you look at something that vast—when you feel how enormous the universe is—you can’t help feeling small. But it’s the good kind of small—the kind where your problems shrink with you, where the world stops pressing quite so hard.
The planetarium gives me that feeling every single time.
“Wow,” Luther breathes as he looks around, his head tipping back to take in the dome and the galaxy blooming across it.
The awe in his voice reminds me of the year Finn and I spent Christmas at Miss Helen’s house. She let us decorate the tree—our first real tree—and when Finn plugged in the lights, the whole room erupted in color.
He’d stared at it with that same expression Luther wears now, as if the world cracked open just enough to let wonder spill out.
“It’s beautiful, right?”
“It’s incredible.” He turns to me. “Thank you, Anouk, for bringing me.”
My cheeks warm. “You asked.”
“Best decision I’ve made in a long time.”
The lights dim, and we sink back into the reclining seats. A soft anticipatory hush ripples through the dome.
There aren’t many people here today, just a handful of astronomy nerds scattered like constellations around the room, which means Luther and I have an entire row to ourselves.
He shifts beside me, the leather creaking softly. Our arms brush—just for a moment—but the spark it sends down my side lingers long after the dark settles in.
Up above us, the dome goes completely black—and then, almost in slow motion, a single star flickers to life.
All at once, it’s just the universe…and us.
A man’s crisp voice comes through the speakers. “Welcome, explorers. Tonight, we journey beyond our solar system, to worlds shaped by light we can’t see, and atmospheres we can only imagine.”
A soft hum of ambient sound swells—something between a low orchestral drone and the whisper of distant wind.
Then the starfield blooms.
Soon, visuals of exoplanet atmospheres, rendered through spectroscopic mapping, cascade across the dome like liquid light.
Bands of color ripple outward—violet haze, emerald clouds, threads of gold where alien suns filter through gases humanity has only ever seen as faint signatures on a graph.
At one point, the dome bursts into a swirl of nebulae, and I hear myself exclaim, without thinking, “I want to live there.”
He looks at me, then, surrounded by the stars, and my entire chest tumbles in on itself. He puts his hand on mine and entangles our fingers. “Me, too,” he whispers.
His touch, for the first time, past perfunctory and professional, is erotic. I stop listening to the nice man talking about exoplanets and simply feel. He’s just holding my hand, but the intimacy of it is profound.
When the show ends, he lets go, and we walk out into the afternoon sun filtering through the academy courtyard.
Children run around the fountains.
Couples take selfies by the Living Roof.
Everything is normal.
Except it’s not because for fifteen minutes, a man held my hand, a man who isn’t Finn, and my mind is still buzzing because of it.
Luther tilts his head. “Hungry?”
I should say no, say I need to get home, and remember professional boundaries.
But I’m not ready to give up on the closeness I just experienced with him.
“Yes,” I say instead. “I am.”
He steers my bike and walks me out to the Music Concourse parking garage.
“I know a place, but we have to drive,” he tells me.
“My bike—”
“It’ll be fine,” he cuts me off.
When we reach his car—a sleek black Audi—I notice something strapped to the outside of the trunk.
It’s a fold-down bike rack, similar to the one Finn has on his truck.
He catches me looking.
“I, uh…got this yesterday.” He rubs the back of his neck. I’ve noticed and noted that he does that when he’s nervous. “Figured if we’re both working late, maybe you’ll let me drive you home.”
Heat suffuses in my chest so fast it almost hurts.
He mounts my bike onto the rack like it’s made of blown glass, double-checks every strap, then opens the passenger door like we’re in some old-fashioned movie.
He takes me to Outerlands in the Sunset District.
It’s a lovely place. All warm wood and weather-worn charm, soft lighting that gilds everything it touches. The scent of rosemary and freshly-baked sourdough wraps you in a hug.
“They make the best Dutch pancakes in the city,” he announces proudly as we sit. “Savory, sweet, life-changing. Trust me.”
“You seem a bit too confident about that,” I tease.
Finn and I eat out often, but we also cook at home a lot, which means that he cooks, and I eat.
I’m a terrible cook, so no one wants me in the kitchen.
I’m perfectly onboard with that. Still, it seems like Luther knows more about the restaurant and diner scene of SF than I do, and I live here while he’s only visiting.
“About Dutch pancakes? Unshakably,” he murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips.
I push the menu away. “Why don’t you order for me?” I suggest.
He tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leans forward, and I smell his cologne. “That’s a lot of trust you’re placing in me, Anouk Starling.”
My cheeks heat. This man is making me feel things by just being near me, things I’ve not felt before, things I’ve avoided because I’m afraid of intimacy, of this. But with Luther, despite our rocky first impressions, I’m not scared. In fact, I like it.
I lick my lips. “It’s j-just f-food.”
He studies me, making me even more conscious, but I can’t look away from his blue-blue eyes.
“You stumble over your words when you’re nervous,” he whispers.
I swallow.
“Am I making you nervous?”
“N-n-no.” Yes, yes, you are, but in the best way possible.
He leans back, smug.
He orders savory Dutch pancakes with mushrooms and gruyere for me, and congee with avocado for himself.
We both get the IPA on draft.
I like that he’s a beer person like me. Makes him…I don’t know, more accessible? I mean, if he’d ordered champagne or something, that would be fine, who doesn’t like a good sparkling wine, but beer….
“I have wondered what you do in your free time,” he asks after our drinks arrive.
“You have?” Why?
“Yeah. You’re…so different from anyone I know.”
“B-because of the st-stutter?”
Christ! Did I just stutter on the word stutter? Earth, swallow me whole now!
He chuckles. “No, Anouk, because you’re interesting. You are amazing with numbers. Just stunning. Then you”—he pauses and then shrugs as if making a decision—“dress like you’re in Paris.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“You do.” He flicks a hand over my black and white scarf.
I look down at my black capri pants and striped, white-and-black blouse. I’m wearing my favorite flats, the ones that have a bow on them and can go into the washing machine, come out like new. They’re my San Francisco warm-day shoes.
“I…I…g-guess.”
“You always wear a scarf.”
His fingers brush the edge of it, and my pulse jumps so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t echo in the room.
“I….”
Words evaporate. My throat tightens. The truth is simple, but not easy.
“I have a scar.” My fingers drift unconsciously to where the history of my childhood is carved upon my skin. “On my neck.”
His expression shifts. He’s curious, yes, but also a little something else.
I hate it when people pity me.
“How did you get it?”
I force a breath. “It’s old. From…when I was a kid. It’s just one of those things.”
Understatement of the century. But I won’t go into the details. Not now. Maybe not ever.
The night my mother murdered my father, he tried to help me just as I tried to help him, and we both got hurt. He lost his life and I parts of my soul.
I keep my gaze steady. I don’t want him to think I’m fragile porcelain. “It’s nothing. I just…people ask, and I don’t want to talk about it.” This comes out stronger. I’m telling him I don’t want to discuss this. “And I like scarves. I mean, who doesn’t?” I add airily.
Thankfully, our food arrives then. Saved by the protein!
“I have a scar.” He holds out the back of his hand, and sure enough, there’s a burn mark.
“How did you get it?”
He gives me a sheepish look. “I tried to cook for a girl I liked in college, and…I set the oven mitt on fire.”
I am just slightly jealous of that girl he cooked for.
“I’m a damn good cook now, and I don’t burn anything,” he quickly adds.
“What happened to the girl?”
He grins now, cheekily. “Oh, she fell madly in love with”—he winks at me—“my roommate who saved the apartment from burning down. They have a kid now. I’m the Godfather.”
I can’t help it. I smile. This man is the cutest. “That’s a charming story.”
He brightens. “Really?”
I roll my eyes. “No, not really. But I’m sure she thought so.” I consider him for a moment. “But then again, maybe not, since she dumped you for your friend.”
He puts a hand to his heart in mock despair. “You wound me, Anouk.”
I give an exaggerated eye roll. “That easily?”
He tips his head back and bursts out laughing. The sound settles inside me like sunlight slipping through my ribcage.
After lunch, we walk along the beach, the late-spring wind working to loosen my braid.
We talk about everything. He tells me about his rotations. He tells me about his sister and his parents.
I listen.
I ask questions.
I don’t stutter.
We keep walking as the sky shifts from pink to lavender to navy.
Behind us, the city lights come on one by one. The ocean hisses steadily against the sand, patient and indifferent.
I catch myself looking at him.
He catches me doing it.
When he drives me home, we’re quiet. It’s a comfortable silence.
Surprising.
The engine purrs to a stop, a lazy hum. He turns to look at me, his hands stay on the steering wheel.
“Thank you f-for today.” My hands twist together in my lap. “It was…b-beautiful.”
Was this a date?
It feels like one.
But I don’t quite know the rules.
“Thank you, Anouk.” His mouth softens into a hint of a smile. “I loved learning about exoplanet atmospheric signatures.”
His gaze holds mine, and something unfamiliar stirs in me.
Arousal.
I’ve never reacted to a man like this before. My history has made closeness complicated. Walls were necessary once. They kept me alive.
But Miss Helen’s voice floats up from my past. “Walls keep you safe, but they also keep people out. And sometimes they trap you.”
“Anouk,” he murmurs huskily.
The space between us changes.
My breath catches.
I’m not sure who moves first. Maybe both of us.
He leans closer.
His hand lifts, hovering near my jaw—close enough to feel the heat of his skin, far enough that I still have a choice.
He waits.
I nod.
I want this.
He cups my cheek, and his thumb brushes against my bottom lip, sending a jolt of electricity straight down to my core.
“Soft,” he murmurs, like he’s whispering a secret just for me. “So, soft.”
And then, he kisses me.
It’s soft. Unhurried. More intention than pressure. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t take. It feels like a question, not a demand.
His mouth is warm, wet. His tongue brushes against mine, tentative at first, like he’s testing the waters, but then he deepens the kiss.
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. I can feel his pulse racing against my fingertips as I grip his shirt, desperate to anchor myself to something real. I moan into his mouth, the sound muffled but loud enough to make him groan in response.
We’re gasping for air, but neither of us pulls away. His lips move to my jaw, trailing hot, wet kisses down to my neck, and I tilt my head back, giving him all the access he wants. His teeth graze against my skin, and I shudder, my entire body trembling like an earthquake.
My heart races. My breathing is uneven. I’m suddenly very aware of being alive in my body.
Oh my God!
My first real kiss.
There were others, technically, years ago—clumsy, unwanted moments I’d never asked for and never counted.
This is different. This one is chosen.
He pulls back slightly, searching my face. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes.”
He rests his forehead against mine for a second, breathing me in, then smiles—slow and a little stunned, like he’s surprised by himself.
He gets out of the car and opens the passenger door for me. He unbuckles my bike and walks it and me to my doorstep. I want to be bold. I want to ask him to come in and stay the night. Finn has women over all the time. I should have a man over, at least, once.
But he’s your boss, Anouk. And, you don’t know anything about sex that you didn’t learn from a porn site.
“Thank you again for today.” He kisses the corner of my mouth.
It’s so soft and sweet. I melt into him. His lips brush against my temple.
It takes a minute or maybe five, but I am finally able to straighten and step away from him.
“Goodnight, Anouk.”
“G-goodnight, Luther.”
I don’t remember unlocking the door.
Or climbing the stairs.
I remember his mouth.
His patience.
The way he waited.
Today is the best day of my life.