Page 1 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

My palms are slick.

I wipe them down the sides of my cargo pants for the third time in a minute. Doesn’t help. The sweat just soaks in. My laptop screen goes blurry—not from a glitch, not even from tears. Just... the panic. It floods everything. My fingers hover above the keys, twitching like they want to run.

Don’t look up.

Don’t. Look. Up.

But I do.

And there it is again. That voice. That fucking voice from a year ago, unearthed like a body I forgot to bury properly.

“If you wanted to fuck a woman, you could’ve found one who actually looked like one.”

The shame crawls up my spine like it never left. Like it was waiting in the corners of my mind, patient and cruel.

God, my body.

It’s always been a problem, hasn’t it?

Too skinny.

Too flat.

Too... boyish.

I eat like I’m training for a marathon, and nothing sticks. Not weight, not muscle, not curves. I’ve had people tell me I’m lucky. I’ve had relatives call me “anorexic” and “a skeleton” to my face like they’re commenting on the weather. I used to laugh. Pretend it didn’t sting.

I worked hard for a decade, only to gain a measly 7 kilograms.

I drowned the taunting voices of ex-boyfriends, vicious Indian aunties, and clueless family members. I was good.

Fuck, I was doing so well.

Until him.

Until that night.

When a stranger looked at me with disgust, and ripped open everything I’d ever hated about myself. When I was standing in someone else’s apartment, naked and shaking and trying not to cry while his voice carved itself into my bones.

Lucian.

Fuck.

“Aarohi?” Katie nudges me lightly. “You good?”

I nod too fast. “Yeah. Just zoned out.”

Zoned out. Right. Try slowly spiraling into a hole of shame.

I force myself to look up, and—

He’s still here.

I was half hoping I was imagining this ridiculous coincidence.

Standing at the front of the lecture hall like this is just another day. Tall. Composed. Wearing that perfect ash-grey shirt like it was tailored for him. A watch gleaming under the lights. His voice—that voice—smooth and confident, like it’s never spat poison.

“—and I’m Lucian Vale, CEO and co-founder of Kepler Health. We’re working on scalable infrastructure to improve interoperability in veterinary healthcare systems. Five years ago, I didn’t even know what interoperability meant—”

Polite chuckles ripple through the room.

I don’t laugh.

Because he looks up.

And he sees me.

Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe I imagined it. His expression doesn’t shift. No flicker of recognition. No narrowed eyes. Just calm, detached professionalism.

Still, something coils in my gut.

Does he remember me?

God, I hope not. Fuck, I know he does.

How do you forget the girl your boyfriend cheated on you with? The one you screamed at. Humiliated. Called a whore. A homewrecking skank.

The one whose body you shredded with words.

I drop my gaze to my notebook and pretend to write. Anything to hide the burn on my face.

It’s been a year.

I’ve worked so hard to forget.

But Lucian Vale just walked back into my life like it was nothing.

I’m suddenly rethinking this course. Why, oh, why did he have to be a guest lecturer for this cohort? At this university?

Because I’m not walking out of this lecture hall with my dignity intact.

Because there’s no way Lucian doesn’t remember me with the way his gaze constantly flickers to me.

And I feel like I’m right back on that carpeted floor, naked, ashamed, and completely shattered.

***

ONE YEAR AGO

“Fucking hell, girl! Just go ,” Katie groans, giving me a rather aggressive shove toward the bar’s exit.

Honestly? I don’t even know why I came out tonight. It’s not like I’m an introvert—but Katie can be relentless. In her words, she’s doing the Lord’s work by ’clearing out my cobwebs with precision and grace.’

Sure, I haven’t had sex since moving to Canada. And, fine, even before that, I’d broken up with my ex about four months before my one-way flight from Delhi to Toronto.

It’s been almost six months here, and Katie still looks personally offended every time I mention my nearly year-long dry spell.

Yes, I have a high sex drive. That’s not the issue.

But that doesn’t mean I’m about to crawl into bed with some hot stranger I met an hour ago at a sketchy bar on a dead Friday night.

Tim—assuming that’s even his real name—just winked at me and not-so-subtly stepped out for a smoke.

And now I’m being manhandled toward the door by Katie, all five-foot-eight of pure gym-sculpted menace.

Outside, the night air hits like a jolt—crisp and cutting, especially against my exposed stomach. I cross my arms, not just for warmth but because my stupid stick-on push-up bra is starting to peel at the edges. I can feel it giving up on me, slowly losing the battle with my skin.

Great. Soon the illusion of cleavage will vanish entirely.

Not that Tim’s been staring at it.

He lights his cigarette and takes a drag, eyes steady, almost thoughtful. The flame flickers across his face, catching the edge of his jaw. He’s hot. Like, obviously hot. But there’s something else—soft-spoken, a little guarded, the kind of guy who asks questions and actually listens.

“Canada’s cold, huh?” he says, exhaling a stream of smoke.

“Yeah,” I mutter, rubbing my arms. “Delhi never prepared me for this kind of betrayal.”

He chuckles. “Well, it’s warmer where we’re headed.”

I arch a brow. “And where exactly is that?”

“My place. Just around the corner. Warm, dry, decent wine. We can maybe watch a sitcom.”

Sitcom?

I don’t usually go for the “aesthetic boy” type, but the way he says it—smooth, confident without being pushy—sends something curling low in my stomach.

And his voice. That deep, lightly-accented cadence that makes everything sound like a dare wrapped in silk. Something tells me a sitcom is not what I’m in for.

“You don’t seem like a sitcom guy,” I tease, biting the inside of my cheek.

He shrugs. “I’m a little bit of everything. Still figuring it out.”

Later, that line will clang in my memory like a dropped wrench. But right now? I just smile and follow.

His apartment is exactly what I expected: minimalist, clean, and somehow smelling like lavender and espresso at the same time.

I linger by the doorway, eyes scanning the framed photos on the shelf.

A few with friends. Two with one particular guy—close, arms draped around shoulders, laughing into each other’s faces.

Oh, so he has a roommate, probably.

I keep my expression neutral as I pull out my phone and discreetly share my location with Katie and Akshat. Just in case. One chaotic, newly-formed bestie and one overly cautious academic make a surprisingly good emergency contact duo.

Tim throws his denim jacket onto a chair and walks toward the kitchen. “You want anything? Water? Wine?”

“Water’s good,” I say, my voice tighter than I want it to be.

He hands me a glass and leans against the counter, gaze sweeping over me—but not lingering anywhere, especially not where I always expect it to.

Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe he just isn’t like the rest.

Maybe my tiny boobs don’t matter.

“So... you’re in your Master’s?” he asks, tilting his head. “Management, right?”

“Yep. And you’re doing the same program. York University, right?”

He nods thoughtfully. “Means we’ve got something in common.”

“Besides questionable decisions on a Friday night?”

He laughs. “That too.”

His eyes soften, his smile shifts a little. Then, just like that, he leans in and kisses me.

It’s not a gentle lean. It’s sudden. Fast.

My brain short-circuits for a second—but then I snap back.

No. I lead .

I take over the kiss, deepen it, shift closer. My hands find his shirt, then the sides of his face. He tastes like smoke and something sweet. When he tries to steer me toward the couch, I redirect us—firm, steady—toward what I hope is the bedroom.

I’ve worked too damn hard to feel in control of my own body. If this is happening, it’s happening on my terms.

Tim hesitates. Just for a second. But then he follows.

We’re kissing again by the time we reach the bed. Clothes come off in bursts—my crop tank top pulled over my head, his shirt flung onto a chair. My cargo pants untied.

He looks good, lean and smooth-chested, but the urgency in his hands feels... mismatched. Like he’s working through steps in his head.

I go to kneel, wanting to go down on him—because that’s where I feel most confident, most in charge—but he stops me, just lightly, with a small shake of his head.

Instead, he grabs a condom from the drawer, rips it open, and rolls it on in one quick motion.

Okay...

No foreplay?

No build-up?

Before I can ask or rethink, I’m thrown on the bed and he’s inside me in one solid thrust. No hesitation. His jaw tightens like he’s clenching through something.

Thankfully, I was ready. Barely.

I let out a soft breath, trying to center myself. The stretch is fine. It’s good, actually.

But the vibe is off. His eyes are closed. His expression is... conflicted? Almost like he’s concentrating too hard.

I’m here, fully naked, underneath this man, and I feel... invisible.

I push the thought away. Maybe he’s just nervous. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe I just need to let myself be in the moment.

I turn my face into his neck, close my eyes, and try to feel something.

His thrusts are uneven now. Disconnected. Like he’s chasing something—his release, maybe—a finish line that has nothing to do with me. No rhythm. No care. Just frantic motion.

I stare at the ceiling, blinking.

Is this really happening? An hour ago, he was talking like he’d show me stars. Now he can’t even look at me.

I’m about to tell him to stop when—

Click.

A soft sound from outside the bedroom. Barely there. But it cuts through the silence like a bullet.

Tim freezes.

His entire body goes stiff. His eyes dart toward the door, wide and feral. He mutters something under his breath that I can’t catch.

I whisper, sitting up slightly. “Is someone here?”

He doesn’t answer. He just moves—scrambling like a man caught in headlights. The panic is so sharp, it makes me rethink everything for a split second.

Is he involved?

The door creaks open and I’m airborne.

Tim throws me. Literally throws me off the bed.

I land hard on my right hip, the carpet biting into my skin through the impact. “Fuck!” I gasp, clutching my side as the burn blooms sharp and hot.

Hair falls in my face. I shove my hair away and look up—and freeze.

There’s a man in the doorway.

No—there’s a storm in the doorway.