“All of the above,” I say before giggling. “You’re such a nerd.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s my favorite thing about you.”
The lights dim further, and the stars emerge—thousands of them, scattered across the dome like diamonds on velvet. Logan’s hand finds mine in the darkness.
“I asked them to start with the night sky as it appears from Chicago,” he says softly. “And then we’ll go... further.”
Music swells—something orchestral and sweeping—and the stars begin to move. The dome becomes a window to the universe, and we’re traveling through it together. Past the moon, past Mars, through the asteroid belt and out toward Jupiter. Saturn’s rings gleam like spun gold. The moons of Neptune drift by like pale ghosts.
And then we’re beyond our solar system entirely, hurtling through interstellar space, past nebulae in colors that shouldn’t exist, past star nurseries where new suns are being born, past galaxies spiraling in the infinite dark.
I’m not aware I’m crying until Logan’s thumb brushes my cheek.
“Too much?” he asks quietly.
“No.” I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the display overhead. “It’s perfect. It’s just... I forgot how small we are. How much is out there. We spend so much time focused on our tiny problems, and meanwhile...”
“Meanwhile, there’s all this.” His voice is soft, reverent. “I remember coming here as a kid. Before MIT, before everything. I’d sit in the dark and watch the stars and feel like maybe I wasn’t so strange after all. Like maybe being different was OK, because the universe is so big and so strange that there’s room for everything. Even for people who don’t fit in anywhere else.”
I turn to look at him. In the low light, with galaxies reflecting off his glasses, he looks younger somehow. More vulnerable. Like the kid he used to be, sitting alone in the dark, trying to find his place in the cosmos.
“You fit with me,” I say. “I hope you know that.”
He turns too, and suddenly we’re very close. His breath warm on my face. His eyes searching mine.
“I’m starting to,” he whispers. “For the first time in my life, I actually believe it.”
Me too. I’ve spent so long convinced that my brain was all I had to offer—that if I couldn’t be the smartest person in the room, I wasn’t worth keeping around. But Logan doesn’t like me because I’m smart. He likes me because I’m me. Because in his eyes, I’m beautiful.
It’s a strange feeling. And I don’t know if I’ll ever see myself with those same eyes. But I love that he sees me that way, even if it’s going to take a while for me to catch up and truly believe it.
The show cycles through to a wormhole simulation, colors swirling across the dome in impossible, gorgeous patterns. When I glance at him, he’s not watching the show anymore. He’s just watching me.
“Stunning,” he whispers. And as cliché as it sounds, I melt. Which is when he leans in and kisses me.
Slow. Deep.
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, and I feel the shift in him—the careful control giving way to something hungrier. My fingers curl into the front of his sweater, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound against my mouth that sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
We’re alone. Completely alone. In a cathedral of artificial stars with no one to interrupt, no project deadlines, no reason to stop.
His other hand finds my hip, fingers pressing into the curve of my waist, and I arch into him without thinking. The armrest digs into my side, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the taste of him, the weight of his hand in my hair, the way his breath comes faster when I part my lips and let him in.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his glasses fogging slightly, and I can feel his heartbeat pounding where my palm presses against his chest.
I don’t want to move. Don’t want to break whatever spell this is.
“So,” he says, voice rough and wrecked. “Same time next week?”
I laugh against his mouth. “You’re going to rent me a planetarium every weekend?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Logan. You can’t just?—”
“Watch me.”
