Luminary has to be one of the most beautiful words in existence. The archaic meaning is described as a natural light-giving body, like a planet or a star. In the realm of astronomy, the ancients looked to these celestial bodies for guidance.
It’s also a person who inspires or influences, especially one prominent in a particular sphere. Not so unlike the original meaning, as we can see the evolution, but maybe less whimsical, lyrical.
During my preparation, I came across many interesting articles like this, but nothing—no amount of preparation or study—could prepare me for Stonehurst University.
The clack of my heels on the smooth sandstone echoes in the long stretch of hallway. The architecture is a mix of Gothic Revival and Glasgow Style, with vaulted ceilings that lend to the elegant curvature of the arches.
The research university itself sits atop a rugged bluff overlooking the Pacific, weathered by the elements and time. Salt air drifts inside the dark, hollow limbs of the structure, carrying the scent of coastal evergreens. Towering spruce and vibrant vine maples surround the campus, their misty branches and fiery red-and-orange leaves woven into the very fabric of this academic harbor.
But there’s something else—something indefinable and chilling that clings to my bones as I navigate the Kessinger Wing, some unknown entity casting a shadow everywhere I look.
As I near PAT 211, I glide my blunt nails across my forehead to sweep my long bangs aside and take a fortifying breath.
Then I pull open the exit door to the lecture hall.
The deep baritone of a male voice fills the auditorium, and a thrilling tremor travels through me. Keeping my gaze aimed at the carpeted floor, thankful for the muffled sound of my footsteps, I creep into a seat along the empty back row of tiered bench seats.
Discreetly, I set my briefcase on the floor beside my feet and look up toward the front of the theater?—
And my breath immediately catches at the sight ofhim.
Keeping his back to the room, he works an equation on the blackboard, scrawling Greek letters and algebraic strings in his messy script. His smooth timbre fills the hall as he talks out a calculation, the acoustics projecting his low mutterings.
My gaze falls down his body in appreciation of the lean, muscular build of his physique. He’s dressed in a tailored, all-black suit, the dark dress shirt fitted beneath a black vest, cuffs tapered close around his wrists where black leather gloves meet.
I’m struck by the sight of him, in the flesh, my heart thundering. Out of habit, I press my palm to my chest, focusing my breathing to slow the climbing rate of my heart.
He pauses, left hand held at an angle from the board, while he takes a moment to analyze. He drags his gloved fingers over the medium taper of his black hair before he begins working the equation once again.
“Black holes are extreme distortions in spacetime. When two black holes collide, it’s an immensely violent event. Physicist Kip Thorne likens this merger to a cosmic whirlpool. Two intense vortexes of twisting space that send gravitational waves rippling out through the fabric of the universe. Like a storm in time.” He makes a mark on the board. “As we sit here, these tiny ripples from violent cosmic events are passing through this room, passing through us, subtly altering the flow of time. With detectors like the ones Thorne helped design at the LIGO Observatory, we can now detect these faint distortions from millions of light-years away.”
I can’t help being drawn in by the smooth cadence of his voice. It’s captivating—everything about him is captivating. While I’ve studied footage of him, making sure I could identify my target, it has failed to prepare me for the visceral impact of being in his presence, hearing his voice, breathing the same air.
And in the space of a skipped heartbeat, I know it’s him that infuses this institution. It’s his dominating force that pervades every stone and shadow.
Orion Night.
As many of the students are doing, I shift my attention around the room, where he lectures on the physics of astronomy three times a week.
Dark fabric drapes the walls between the opaque windows with black ornamentation. The entire theater is carved in stone and deep wood, reminiscent of a Gothic cathedral, something right out of a Victor Hugo novel. Antediluvian objects decorate the space. Brass globes and spinning dials. Phases of the planets and astrology from when it was a science.
My thoughts turn to the slender brass piece I keep in my pocket, trying to match it with one of the artifacts. But at this point, it would only confirm what I already know. The second I saw the man, I knew he was the one.
He was mine.
My thoughts halt as I become hyperaware of the sudden silence. I sense the moment his sharp eyes snare me, my movement caught as I look toward the front of the room.
Behind his black-rimmed glasses, Orion’s piercing gaze scans the pews, seeking the change in his environment, and those striking teal eyes alight on me in the back row.
And time seems to distort, making me feel his words on a deeper level. The past, present, and future linked in one moment. As the seconds slow and speed all at once, I’m left breathless in the wake of his discerning gaze.
The intelligence banked there is startling, but it’s the uncharacteristic beauty that catches me off-guard, caught in a labyrinth of lust and wonder.
God, to wield the power to devastate with a single glance is a frightening ability.
I feel the years fall away, the past dissolving beneath his unblinking catalogue of my features, and an electric charge builds between us, a palpable link to the man I’ve been chasing.
I’m vibrating with a dangerous mix of exhilaration and fear, unable to hide the effect he has on me. As his bold gaze sweeps over me, I feel the touch of it on my cheeks, neck, clavicle, sending a flush of heat through my entire body.
