Page 11 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

Three weeks.

Three agonizing weeks since that damning kiss.

And he hasn’t kissed me like that again.

Sure, his lips still find mine—a peck here, a gentle nose graze there. Sweet. Tender. But never a kiss kiss. Not like that first one.

The kind that made my knees weak. The kind that short-circuited every functioning thought in my brain.

Not that I mind.

Because one more kiss like that and I’ll be dropping my clothes at his feet. And I’m not ready for that yet.

Mentally? Emotionally? Physically? I don’t even know.

We’ve started seeing less of each other now that his guest lectures are over. No more automatic lunch dates between classes. But he still makes time.

He always shows up when I’m on shift at the café—his order ready before he even walks in.

Usually after texting me something soft and sickeningly sweet, like:

Lucian: Heading over. Don’t judge my pastry choices today.

Or

Lucian: Save me a corner seat, and one of those flirty smiles.

I hate how my stomach flips every time.

He’s trying. I see it. I feel it. And it’s working .

We haven’t talked about that night again. Which is... fine. Maybe even preferable. Because I’m finally getting what I wanted: learning who he is now , not who he was that night.

Not the man who broke me with his disgusted gaze. But the one trying, in his own stilted, careful way, to earn me.

Just two weeks ago, he took me back to his place for the first time. I was dreading it.

But it wasn’t the place from before—the one etched in my memory like a bruise.

He reassured me before I even stepped inside his car. Told me he moved. Put his old apartment on the rental market and now lives in a stunning two-bedroom penthouse.

And it is stunning.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire downtown. A massive kitchen with matte black countertops. And that bedroom?

God.

A king-sized bed with satiny cream sheets that probably cost more than my entire rent.

No, I definitely haven’t imagined myself sprawling on that bed. Not at all.

(Okay. Maybe once. Or twice. Or every night since.)

Which is exactly why I have to bring it up with my therapist today. If I ever want to jump his bones— bone —without spiraling into a tailspin of insecurities, I need to get my shit sorted.

Because the truth is?

I haven’t been naked with anyone since Tim.

That night changed everything for me. My body. My comfort. My entire sense of how I take up space in someone else’s gaze. His gaze.

But I can’t talk to Lucian about that night.

I’ve tried bringing it up—casually, softly, in passing. Every time, his jaw tightens. His mouth sets. His eyes flicker with something unreadable. He shuts it down before it even begins.

So I don’t push. I pick my battles. And I save that one—for therapy.

The Zoom screen in front of me shifts, the “waiting room” label disappearing as my therapist lets me in.

I square my shoulders, exhale through my nose, and prepare to unravel the thoughts I’ve kept carefully stitched up for three weeks straight.

The screen flickers for half a second before Ruth appears, wearing that familiar knit cardigan and her reading glasses perched halfway down her nose. Her gray hair is pulled back in a low bun, a few flyaways framing her lined but kind face.

“Good morning, Aarohi.”

“Hi, Ruth.” I smile softly, tucking my hair behind my ear. “You look cozy today.”

She chuckles. “It’s raining here. Cozy is necessary.”

A beat passes as she looks at me closely, then leans back in her chair. “So... how are you?”

The way she says it—slow, weighted—it’s not a formality. She’s asking because she knows. About that night. About everything that followed. About the person I was before and the person I’ve been trying to become since.

“I’m... okay, I think?” I exhale. “Lucian’s been... really nice. Actually.”

Ruth’s brow lifts slightly. “Ah... today is a Lucian session. What’s been happening with him?”

I don’t control the blush creeping up.

“Yeah. He texts me in the mornings before my shift. Comes by the café. We’ve had a few... I don’t know if I should call them dates, but... things have been better. Softer.”

I surprise myself with that word.

Softer.

It’s the only one that fits.

Ruth hums. “And how do you feel about him?”

“I’m...” I hesitate, my voice faltering. “I’m attracted to him. Like, in a very real, very inconvenient way.”

That earns a knowing smile from her. “Inconvenient how?”

“Because,” I say, fiddling with the zipper of my hoodie, “I think I want more. But I’m scared to take it further.”

“You mean sex?”

I nod once, quickly, and avert my gaze. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Ruth doesn’t fill it. She never does. She waits until I’m ready to continue.

“It’s stupid. I know he’s attracted to me. He shows me in a million little ways. He calls me sweetheart and baby. He always notices when I’m off. He—uh... kisses me. He helps with my school projects. He’s been... patient. Like, really patient.”

“But?” Ruth prompts.

“But the idea of taking off my clothes in front of him... it scares the shit out of me.”

“Because of what happened that night.”

I nod again, this time slower. “He looked at me like I was disgusting. And that look... that comment... it just stuck. I still think of it at odd times.”

I breathe in. My throat feels tight. “Even now, I keep thinking—what if we’re kissing, and he looks at me like that again? What if the illusion breaks? What if he’s just saying he wants me, but deep down, that look is still there? It’s stupid.”

Ruth doesn’t jump in right away. She gives me the space to finish unraveling my thoughts.

“Has he done or said anything recently that made you feel that way?”

“No,” I admit quietly. “If anything, he’s done the opposite. He’s... been wonderful.”

“And yet, that look from over a year ago still has more power over you than everything he’s done since.”

That hits me harder than I expect. I blink. “Yeah. But we don’t really know each other that well. I mean... it’s just been—what—a month. Maybe less?”

She leans forward slightly, resting her arms on her desk. “You’re not wrong to be cautious. That night did happen. That version of him existed. And your fear is your mind trying to protect you. But here’s the thing—protective mechanisms don’t always know when to stand down.”

I furrow my brows. “So... what do I do? Just let it go?”

“No,” she says firmly. “You don’t just let it go. You let yourself test the waters. Maybe it’s not about diving headfirst into sex. Maybe it’s about trusting your body again. In small ways. Letting yourself feel desire without attaching shame or panic to it.”

I sit with that for a moment.

“You don’t owe him anything,” she continues. “Not your body. Not forgiveness. Not even closure. But if what you want is closeness... real closeness... then that might mean working through this with him instead of avoiding it.”

I nod slowly. “So I... what? Talk to him about it? He doesn’t wanna talk about it.”

“I know. You told me that,” she says gently. “But maybe don’t make it about him. Make it about you. Not about that night. But about where you’re at. Let him connect the dots.”

I take a deep breath and smile weakly. “This is exhausting.”

“That’s healing for you.” She grins. “For some people it’s yoga. For others, it’s reliving their worst day in therapy once a week.”

I laugh despite myself.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like a woman rebuilding. One fear at a time.

??????

An email notification breaks through the chaos spiral I’ve been sinking into over my school assignment the next evening.

I glance at my phone and nearly jump when I see it’s from the concierge.

You have a package waiting.

Yes!

Without bothering to change out of my pajamas, I race downstairs, home slippers and all. Fifteen minutes later, I’m back on my bed, slicing through the tape with my keys and unboxing the package I’ve been waiting days for.

I lift it out of the wrapping with both hands, holding it up to the light. A slow smile curls at my lips

God, I hope he likes it.

Wait. Shit.

Is this... super girlfriend-y? Too much? Over the line?

I chew my lip. My brain offers a solid five seconds of spiraling.

Then I shake my head. Screw it. Lucian can decide if it’s a good gift or not. It came from a good place.

The idea hit me the other night when I was over at his place for dinner. We’d ended up watching a movie, curled up on his massive couch, legs tangled. And on my way to the bathroom, I’d spotted a small shelf tucked into the corner of his living room.

A little shrine.

A framed photo of Cooper, his cat. A collar. A paw print.

I’d lingered longer than I should’ve, reading the inscription on the urn beneath it.

I don’t know what it feels like to lose a pet, not really. But I know what it looks like to grieve something that mattered.

And Cooper clearly mattered to Lucian. Hell, the man built a company for him.

So yeah. Maybe this is a little extra. But I can’t wait to give this to him.

Wait— we haven’t met today . Maybe I should change that?

Before my confidence has the chance to evaporate, I pull out my phone and shoot him a message. It’s just after 7 pm. He should be home by now.

Me: Are you home? Thought we’d grab dinner. I made chicken curry.

My stomach twists as I watch the little “delivered” shift to “read.”

I let out a tiny yelp.

Oh god. I’ve never initiated us hanging out before. This is completely untouched territory. I’m practically sprinting into it blindfolded.

But then—three dots.

Tunn-tunn!

Lucian: Baby, I love that Indian style chicken. Want me to grab some naan?

I smile, relaxing into the pillows behind me.

Me: I’ve got naan. My lazy ass could never run out of it.

Lucian: *beautiful ass

Me: ??

Lucian: Come over. Bring an overnight bag.

My heart slams into my ribs so hard I actually miss a breath.

Me: omw!

Oh god.

Is this it?

Is tonight the night I lose my re-virginized coochie to the man who looks like he invented smirks and has hands big enough to ruin me?

Breathe, Aarohi. Breathe.

Ruth’s voice echoes in my head—Ease into it. Share, don’t hide. Let him see you. Let him prove he’s safe with your story before you give him your body.

Right. Okay. Slow. Steady. Chicken curry first, naked second.

Maybe.

Within twenty minutes, I’ve changed into something slightly cute but not too obvious, packed the still-warm chicken, naan, and the gift that I hope to god doesn’t make me look unhinged.

As I lock my door behind me, bag slung over my shoulder, one thought keeps repeating in my head:

Please, let this night end well.