33. Anouk
Anouk
Iforgive Luther, and I do trust him—mostly—but the relationship rebuilds on its own timetable. It doesn’t rush back or click neatly into place. It returns in fragments, uneven and gradual, shaped by time and consistency.
I doubt him at the strangest moments.
That hurts him. Then I feel guilty for hurting him, which makes him pull back, which makes me panic—and then we argue. And then we make up. Sometimes loudly. Sometimes naked.
Trust isn’t a lightning strike. It’s a quiet accumulation.
We’re dating openly now. Everyone knows—at work and in our personal lives. It isn’t awkward. It’s…fun.
I stay at his place more often than I go home. Finn walked in on us naked once, which accelerated that decision considerably. He made it weird. Very weird.
My toothbrush gains permanent residency next to his. My scarves migrate into a drawer in his dresser along with my panties and bras.
We fall into a rhythm that is earned rather than accidental—shared grocery lists, lazy mornings, evenings spent reading without the pressure to perform conversation.
We don’t talk about the future right away, but we circle it. Well, he does. He drops hints, lets the idea exist without naming it.
We’re learning about each other.
He hates aubergine, which is frankly unforgivable. What about moussaka?
Then again, I can’t stand squid—it’s the texture—and he is personally offended by that.
“No fried calamari?” he asks, like it’s a moral failing.
We make love…a lot. With enthusiasm.
Recently, we crossed “sex in the office” off the list.
Mortifying.
Reckless.
Ridiculously hot.
One of those bend-me-over-the-desk situations with a very real chance of being caught—and we did it anyway, then walked out feeling invincible.
Now that we’re essentially living together, the sex is slower, deeper.
He takes his time, exploring me with reverence rather than urgency—kisses along my collarbone, my shoulders, his mouth lingering as if he’s memorizing me. By the time he finally reaches me, I’m already undone, my body responding before my mind can catch up.
There’s laughter afterward.
Ease.
A sense of us that no longer feels fragile.
Six months pass in bliss.
For our first anniversary, he takes me back to Napa.
It feels like stepping into a memory that waited patiently for us to return.
The cabin. The stone fireplace. The wide windows. The quiet.
Nothing has changed—except us. We’re better people—together and apart.
It’s like last time. He cooks, and I help—by which I mean he lets me stir, lets me taste, and very deliberately keeps me away from the spices. There was an incident involving chili powder a couple of months ago, and since then, they’ve been officially declared off-limits to me.
We drink good wine with our meal and talk about nothing and everything at once.
After dinner, we go to the deck. The sky is streaked with lavender and deep blue, the air warm and still. I lean against the railing, breathing it in, when he comes up behind me.
“Anouk,” he says softly.
I turn.
He isn’t nervous the way I expected him to be. I already saw the ring in his underwear drawer. So, I knew what he was planning—proposing in Napa. What a cliché!
Still, my heart races. I’m excited. Anxious. Ridiculously happy.
He takes my hands in his. “I know you know.” He kisses my nose.
I frown. “How do you know that I know?”
He rolls his eyes and shoots me a pointed look.
I narrow my eyes. “Finn. That rat bastard.”
He laughs. “He told me you promised to act surprised.”
“I did,” I admit huskily.
“I love you.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Your strength. Your kindness. The way you see the world. I don’t ever want to stop learning from and with you.”
My throat tightens.
“I don’t want to be perfect,” he continues. “I want to be better. With you. For you.”
I sniffle. “You going to do the drop-to-one-knee business?”
He sighs theatrically. “Yes, Anouk, can you have some patience?”
“I can try!”
He sinks onto one knee. I laugh and cry at the same time because, honestly, how can I not?
“Will you marry me?” he asks solemnly. “Will you keep choosing me, the way I choose you?”
For once, my voice doesn’t fail me. “Yes.” Clear. Certain. “I will.”
He slides the ring onto my finger, stands, and pulls me into his arms. I don’t even look at the diamond properly because who gives a flying fuck about the ring? It’s him, it’s the man.
I bury my face in his neck, breathe him in, feel something I never thought I’d have—a future.
“You’re mine, Luther Grant,” I announce.
“Always and forever,” he agrees.
Want more Anouk and Luther? Read the bonus chapter: Shining Through.
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