Page 12 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

This wasn’t the first time she was coming over.

Not even the second.

It was the third time.

And somehow, that felt dangerous .

I hadn’t expected her to initiate anything—least of all texting me about dinner and offering to bring food. A small part of my mind had cheered, smug that my so-called plan might actually be working.

But the other part?

The other part was a panicked mess.

I told her to bring an overnight bag.

Why the fuck did I say that?

I mean—I’ve fucked in the past year. Of course I have. But nothing’s come close to the feeling I get just kissing her. Those wine-stained lips, the way she sometimes blinks slowly right before we kiss, like she’s bracing for impact.

She’s... not my usual .

Which is why I’m currently standing in my hallway, glaring at a plush white pair of home slippers like they’ve personally betrayed me.

I bought them.

For her.

Goddammit .

She’s Indian. And the first time she came over, I noticed how hesitant she was to keep her shoes on—despite my insistence. (’Outside shoes shouldn’t be inside shoes, Lucian.’)

The second time, she was barefoot, prancing around with that gorgeous chaos energy while I silently freaked out over whether the floor was clean enough.

(It wasn’t. I hadn’t vacuum-cleaned in three days. Her bare feet on my half-dusted hardwood nearly gave me an aneurysm.)

But this angel never let her feet touch my couch.

So yes.

I bought her slippers. Soft, brand-new, fucking adorable slippers with tiny embroidered stars. I’ve never bought something so absurdly domestic for someone.

Not even for Tim.

I drag a hand through my hair, muttering a quiet, “Fuck,” to no one. Because if I really let myself sit with what this means...

Then I’ll have to admit it’s not a plan anymore.

It’s just me .

Catching feelings I was never supposed to have.

An hour later, there’s a knock at the door. Not a surprise—I buzzed her in minutes ago.

I wipe my hands over my gray sweatpants as I walk to open it, heart kicking up a little like I’m some teenager waiting on a crush.

And then she’s there.

Teal sweatpants. A loose matching hoodie over a white T-shirt. Hair tied back, wispy strands framing her face.

Jesus.

How the hell does she manage to look irresistible in that ?

I smile—automatically. No calculation. No performance.

Fuck. When was the last time one of my smiles was forced? Weeks ago?

She just... glows . And I don’t mean in that poetic, halo-of-light sort of way. I mean energy. She fills the space, effortlessly.

“I’ve got food,” she chirps, hiking her backpack off her shoulder and gesturing toward it like a delivery mule.

I chuckle. “I’ve got entertainment.” I nod toward the TV.

She steps inside, sliding into the plushy slippers like it’s the most normal thing. Then she launches into a rant about her day like she never stopped mid-thought between texts and walking through my front door.

Something about Katie—how she’s being a complete bitch in one of their group projects. How she’s controlling the agenda, steamrolling everyone, making it hard to actually collaborate.

I listen. Really listen .

It’s a first.

Not because I’ve never listened to people talk before. But because I care about what she’s saying. I remember Katie. She’s that ambitious, polished type—connects only when it benefits her. That Masters-program, shark-in-blazer vibe. Rohi’s right. They’re not on the same page.

But I don’t say it.

Because I also remember Rohi calling Katie one of her only friends here.

So I let her talk. Let her vent. Let her fill the room while I pull out the food she’s packed and place it neatly on the kitchen island.

She’s still yapping when I open a container. Something aromatic and spicy hits my nose. Chicken curry.

But then—she quiets.

Abruptly. Mid-word.

“I, uh...” she starts, voice suddenly softer. “I wanted to gift you something.”

I pause. My brows tug together.

“Me?” I glance at her. “What for? Is this a thank-you for my excellent professor duties?”

She lets out a laugh—nervous and brief. Says something else, but her voice fades when I glance down and see the box she’s pulling out of her bag.

It’s small. About the size of my palm. Matte black with a discreet clasp.

I open it.

And my breath leaves me in one long, silent exhale.

It’s a bracelet.

A black-weave leather bracelet with Cooper engraved into the side. Hanging from it, a small metal charm—a circle etched with a paw print. His paw print.

I blink.

She’s saying something—I think explaining where she got it, how it’s just a little thing she saw online, how she thought maybe I could wear it on bad days—but I can’t hear her.

Because in my head, I’m not in my kitchen anymore.

I’m curled on a threadbare couch in my old apartment. Cooper is asleep on my chest, his little breaths warm and steady. His nose tucked under my jaw.

I used to joke he could smell my sadness before I even spoke.

And now...

This beautiful woman—this woman I had pegged as a fucking target just weeks ago—has given me a way to carry him again.

I have an urn.

I have a shrine.

But this—this feels alive.

Like I could walk out the door and take him with me.

Like a tether that hadn’t been cut after all.

I’m still staring when I finally feel her fingers brush my wrist, tentative. “Lucian?”

I look up. Her eyes are wide, uncertain.

And I realize I’ve been completely silent. I swallow, but it’s hard. My throat is too tight.

“This is...” I shake my head, unable to finish the sentence. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” She offers a small smile. “But I wanted to.”

She wanted to.

Fuck.

She’s killing me.

I mumble a choked thank you and slide the bracelet on, eyes locked on hers.

And something shifts in my chest.

Something constant. And I’m not sure if it’s the bracelet or her .

We end up on the couch after dinner.

Not surprising. That seems to be our thing. Shit. I have a thing with her now.

I’ve got one arm lazily flung over the backrest behind her, legs stretched out, a blanket pooled around our feet. Her socks have strawberries on them. Who the hell wears strawberry socks and still manages to make my dick twitch?

The Office plays on the screen—Season 3, the ridiculous “Survivor Man” episode where Michael drags himself into the woods with a knife and duct tape trying to prove he can handle the wild.

We’re both laughing, leaning into each other. Her head keeps bumping my shoulder every time she lets out one of those quiet snort-giggles. Her fingers brush against my thigh every now and then.

“You’re definitely a Dwight,” I say, nudging her side. “Strategic. Ruthless. Secret weapons hidden in the walls.”

She turns to me, mock-offended. “Excuse me? If anyone here has main-character delusions, it’s you, Mr. I-Run-A-Startup.”

I smirk. “Oh, so you think I’m Michael?”

“You are Michael. Charm, unhinged delusions, but somehow people still like you.” She squints at me. “Even when they shouldn’t.”

I raise a brow. “Are you saying you like me, Ms. Talwar?”

Her eyes glint and I feel her fingers drawing circles on my inner thigh. “I’m saying you’re tolerable.”

I chuckle but my throat is tight with lust.

She’s still watching the TV when I shift slightly, guiding her gently until she’s straddling me—slow and unhurried. Her knees settle on either side of my thighs and I feel her freeze for half a second, probably realizing what this position usually implies.

But I don’t rush her.

“Your hand on my thigh is telling me a different story, Rohi.”

Her hands lightly rest on my shoulders, unsure. Her expression flickers—open, then closed.

“I don’t...” she starts, then gives a breathy laugh, awkward. “I’m not really the straddle-your-lap-and-look-flawless type, you know.”

I frown at her statement before I tilt my head. “What does that mean?”

Her gaze flicks away. “I just mean—I know I don’t exactly have... like, the body. I’m not curvy. You’re probably getting poked by my bones on your thighs.” Her tone’s joking, but it’s tight at the edges.

I don’t understand where this is coming from but I have a sudden urge to dispel that embarrassed look from her face.

My hands slide up her back, warm and slow. One stops at the base of her spine. The other cups the back of her neck.

“Rohi,” I murmur, voice low. “You’re fucking stunning. I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

She rolls her eyes like she doesn’t believe me.

So I drag my hands down, framing her waist. “You know what I see? I see this ass that fits perfectly into my hands.” I tug her just enough for her to feel me hardening beneath her. “I see golden legs I dream about. A smile that throws me off my game.”

She looks down, flustered.

And then I kiss the corner of her mouth. Soft. Barely-there.

“And these tits?” I whisper, nudging my nose against her jaw, my one hand cupping her breast over her t-shirt. “Saw a glimpse when you were wearing that sinful dress. Thought they were perfect for my mouth.”

Her breath catches when I tug her t-shirt up. Enough for me to gain the beautiful vision of her—clad in a black bralette.

She looks at me like she’s trying to memorize my face. And in that moment— holy hell —I want to give her everything. All while I take that uncertain look from her eyes and replace it with lust.

Suddenly, she scrambles off my lap and stands. Before I can ask what’s wrong, she’s taking her clothes off.

For a moment, I’m stunned. Watching as acres of beautiful brown skin comes into view. Fuck, she’s not just hot. She’s toned . I can see a tiny outline of her abs—if she’d just flex a little.

She could be a supermodel if she was just a few inches taller.

I’m too mesmerized by her—in just a bralette and panties—that I miss the expression she’s currently wearing.

She looks... terrified . Mumbling about how I need to see her whole body before we continue.

That wouldn’t do. I know some people are shy, especially when they’re exposing themselves to a new lover. But I can’t have her be embarrassed. I want her whimpering under me.

I slowly stand up, and take a step towards her. Before shedding my own white t-shirt and sweatpants.

“We’re even now.” I smirk when her eyes widen at the sight of my hard cock peeking out of my boxers.

She’s about to speak when I crash my lips on hers. Taking advantage, I glide my tongue into her open mouth, swallowing her gasps.

She moans when I cup her over her panties. She’s wet. So fucking wet.

I pick her up bridal style, my mouth never leaving hers—as I blindly guide us into my master bedroom. She’s now sprawled over my sheets—looking like a vision as she does.

I kiss her again, my frame swallowing hers as I hover over her. My hands frantically caressing her breasts, her waist, her thighs. I can’t wait anymore. Fuck.

I slide her panties down her legs before looking at her for confirmation to continue. She nods and that’s all I need before my mouth is on her sweet, sweet nub.

I’m mindless in my pursuit of her muted moans. Then she comes on my tongue, as I coax a loud moan from her.

I crawl back up, pinning her one hand over her head as I kiss her. I don’t know when but at some point she removed her bralette. She tries to cover those beautiful perky tits with another hand but I shove it away.

“You don’t hide from me,” I murmur, voice wrecked. “You don’t ever fucking hide.”

I quickly remove my boxers. She arches into me when I nudge her pussy with my cock, and I let myself drown.

Every inch of her—soft skin, trembling breath, the way her legs part like instinct—is perfection wrapped in self-doubt I don’t understand.

Fuck, she’s too much.

And she’s mine. Right now, in this moment, she’s mine .

I kiss her again, slow this time. She tastes like heat and hunger. I reach for the drawer, tear open the foil, and press my forehead against hers as I sheath myself.

“Lucian,” she whispers.

“You’ve got me, baby.”

I push in slowly, inch by inch, watching her eyes flutter open and shut. Her fingers curl into my biceps. Her mouth parts in a silent gasp.

“Fuck,” I groan, jaw tightening. “You feel like goddamn heaven.”

She wraps her legs around me, tilts her hips to take more of me, and I nearly lose my mind.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, unable to stop myself. “Everything about you... these legs, these tits, this tight little pussy—fuck, baby—you were made for me.”

She laughs—shaky, breathless. “That’s not how anatomy works.”

“Don’t care,” I rasp, shaking my head. “This was made for me.”

And I believe every word out of my mouth.

I set a slow rhythm, kissing her between every thrust. Her hands run through my hair, down my back, nails scraping when I hit that one perfect angle.

Her moans turn to gasps. Her gasps to whimpers. And when she finally comes, crying out my name, I follow. Hard. Messy. Mindless.

We’re both panting.

Drenched in sweat.

She curls into me, her cheek pressed to my chest. Our legs tangled. My heart still racing.

And for the first time in a long fucking time, I feel... full.

Like maybe I don’t have to carry all of it anymore.

Like maybe revenge doesn’t taste as sweet as she does.

Cold dread slithers up my spine at the thought.

Revenge. My plan.

God . The ecstasy of the moment twists into something sharp and sour.

A knot forms in my chest, guilt worming its way in.

What the fuck am I doing?