32. Luther
Luther
The funeral is small but well attended.
That’s what Anouk notices, even before the casket, before the muted flowers, before the quiet murmur of a chapel that smells faintly of polish and old wood.
She stiffens beside me, and I know it’s because she’s surprised that so many people showed up.
My parents. Ria. Theo. Dot and Neil. Vijay, Pallavi, Mila, and Ian from work. Finn’s entire firehouse crew that’s not on shift. Even Martin, who has no reason to be here, except that he cares about me, and he knows I love Anouk.
Anouk’s breath catches. “They didn’t even know her.”
“They’re not here for your mother.” I tighten my hold in her hand. “They’re here for you.”
She turns slowly to look at me, disbelief written across her face. “B-but…?”
“They’re all your people, my starling. You’re not alone.”
She glances at Finn, who’s standing on the other side of her. He shrugs. “Hey, I think they’re here for the wake. Everyone loves an Irish wake. You know, no one turns down free booze.”
Finn planned that because, apparently, you have to, as per firehouse rules, at Danny Coyle’s, an Irish pub that’s popular with first responders.
Anouk groans and says sarcastically, “Right! That makes so much sense.”
The service is brief. There’s no grand eulogy, no whitewashing. No one pretends Cristina was better than she was.
When I planned it, I spoke with the officiant about Cristina and Anouk—carefully, without too much detail. Anouk wouldn’t have wanted that.
He obviously understood the assignment because he didn’t speak about forgiveness or redemption. Instead, he talked about the complexity of grief, about fractured lives, about endings that don’t come with neat bows.
It’s honest, and I think that’s all it needs to be.
Anouk doesn’t cry when the dates are read. She doesn’t flinch when the casket is closed. She stands very straight, scarf perfectly arranged, hand steady in mine.
“So?” I ask.
Her mouth softens into a hint of a smile. “I’m done.”
“Yeah?”
She rested her head on my shoulder. “Yes. You see, I wasn’t mourning my mother,” she says almost absently. “I was mourning the absence of her. And now, I’m done with both.”
Danny Coyle’s is loud when we arrive.
There’s the familiar sound of beer mugs meeting scratched-up tabletops and the thud of boots on the worn wooden floors. There’s the distinct pub smell of beer, fried food, and weed. This is San Francisco; everywhere smells of weed.
Someone from Finn’s crew had claimed two long tables near the back for the Irish wake, even though neither Anouk nor Cristina was Irish. Finn isn’t either, for that matter. His last name came from the priest who found him—but he likes to pretend otherwise. It gives him roots, he says.
Jackets are slung over chair backs.
Pints are already halfway gone.
A bartender with tattooed forearms and a patient expression keeps them coming without being asked.
“This is….” Anouk searches for the word.
“Not depressing?” Finn supplies.
She snorts despite herself. “Absolutely.”
“Starling!” one of Finn’s colleagues bellows. “You’re late!”
“I had a funeral to go to,” she deadpans.
This medley of people merges and mingle.
Dot and Neil are with the HelixSphere people and my parents. They’re talking about the impact of AI on society. Neil thinks AI is going to decimate society, while Dot isn’t sure, and my father and Ian believe it’s going to save us.
The firefighters are fans of Theo because of a story he wrote about first responders a couple of years ago. They’re listening intently to him talk about life as an embedded war journalist. Ria would much rather he never did that again.
Plates of food appear—shepherd’s pie, baskets of fries, things fried and golden—and disappear just as quickly.
Someone raises a pint.
“To complicated women,” one of the firefighters says.
“To surviving them,” another adds.
Finn lifts his beer. “To Annie—who’s stronger than all of us.”
There’s a chorus of agreement.
Anouk freezes for half a second, clearly overwhelmed, then lifts her glass, too.
“Thank you.” Her voice wobbles with emotion. “For showing up. F-for…this.”
As the evening wears on, the mood shifts—not away from grief, but around it.
The stories get sillier. Laughter comes easier. Someone puts money in the jukebox, and I don’t know how many pints after my father and mother are dancing to Danny Boy.
Anouk sits next to me, her body melting into mine. It’s perfect.
“This is nice,” she marvels. “I didn’t think it would be.”
Finn watches us from across the table. He catches my eye and nods once—approval, trust, a passing of the baton.
“You know what,” Anouk adds slowly, “this place would be too…blue collar for her. She’d hate it.”
I grin. “All the more reason to do it here, then.”
She laughs, resting her head against my shoulder. “Truer words haven’t been said.”
It starts with a kiss. I am planning for it to be goodnight by her doorstep, but it becomes more.
Her lips part, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “I need this, Luther. I need you.”
I can see the hunger in her eyes, the pain, the longing. Her body trembles like she’s holding in a scream. “I need you, too, my starling. More than you know.”
Her hand reaches out, shaky but sure, gripping the front of my shirt. Her nails dig into the fabric, into me.
I groan, my forehead resting against hers. “Anouk....
“Luther,” she whispers, her voice trembling with need.
I grab her by the waist, pulling her into me. Her body molds against mine, soft and perfect. Her hips grind into me. I see stars.
“We need to get inside,” I murmur against her mouth. And without taking my lips off hers, I lead her into her place and into her bedroom. Thank God, Finn is still at the pub; otherwise, we’d not hear the end of it.
I lay her on her bed, covering her with my body, touching my lips to hers.
She moans, a low, throaty sound that goes straight to my heart. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer. Her lips find mine, hungry and desperate. I lose myself in her, tasting the salt of her tears, the sweetness of her mouth.
I pull back, my breath ragged. “Are you sure about this?” I ask hoarsely.
She nods, her eyes never leaving mine.
We undress hurriedly, and like magnets that need to connect, we hold each other close. But soon that’s not enough. I pull away and crawl down her body. I can smell her arousal. I press my face into her pussy, breathing her in.
She lets out a choked sob, her hands gripping my hair.
I lick her in one slow, wet stripe, bite her clitoris, inserting two fingers into her. She screams, her thighs shaking around my head. Her pussy is tight around my fingers. I suck on her clit, hard, and she comes with a cry, her body convulsing.
I kiss her after, let her taste herself. It’s always so good with her. So amazing. Intimate. Loving. Dirty. Erotic.
She pushes me onto my back. “My turn.”
Despite the day we’ve had, there’s a playfulness about her, and it’s endearing. It’s how she is with me and only me.
Her lips wrap around my cock, and I groan, thrusting into her mouth. She gags, tears streaming down her face, but she doesn’t stop.
“No more.” I push her onto her back and lie on top of her. She wraps her legs around my waist, her pussy slick against my cock.
I drive into her in one thrust. She cries out, her nails digging into my back. Her pussy clenches around me, hot and tight. Her mouth finds mine again, and we kiss, messy and desperate.
“Luther,” she whimpers against my lips. “I’m coming....”
“I know, baby. I can feel it.”
I push deeper, harder, feeling her body shake. I come with a roar, spilling inside her.
She curls into me, her head resting on my shoulder.
“That was nice.”
“Just nice?”
She laughs. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure you can do better the next time.”
“And the next?”
“Yes.”
“And the next?” I kiss her hair.
“Yes.” She nuzzles my chest.
“Thank you, Anouk. For trusting me.”
“Thank you for earning my trust,” she replies.
My mother was right. The second climb was steeper; every step earned instead of given—but that effort changed the ground beneath us. It didn’t just bring us back together—I am confident that it gave us our forever.