Page 16 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

“He said he wanted closure.”

Closure? Is that what we’re calling it now?

He wanted fucking closure, so he reached out to her ?

He rips my life apart and then gets to sit across from her—my... girlfriend —to talk about his healing?

“For using me. For humiliating me.”

And my humiliation? Where is the fucking remorse for making a damn fool out of me?

“For hurting three people.”

Three?

Really?

When the fuck was he hurt?

When the fuck was she hurt?

“I didn’t forgive him.”

What does she have to forgive him for? And if she didn’t forgive him... why did she meet him?

Why did she sit there and listen ?

Why did she let him explain while I’m still out here trying to stitch myself together, no explanation in sight.

“He was going through something.”

Of course. He was going through something.

Well guess what, so was I . I was going through hell .

And I didn’t cheat. I didn’t lie. I didn’t use someone else to test the waters of my sexuality.

He did.

He decimated every gentle, real thing about our relationship and called it a... mistake? Was I the lie? Was Aarohi? Where the fuck are my answers?

Everything keeps rattling around in my fucking skull like loose bolts in an engine. I can’t stop hearing it. Her voice. Soft. Careful. Like she knew she was holding a match near gasoline.

I press the heel of my palm against my eye socket, willing the pressure to keep me grounded. But it doesn’t help. Nothing does.

I grip the edge of the bathroom sink and stare down at my own knuckles—white and bloodless from how hard I’m holding on.

And she told me so earnestly. Like she expected I’d be proud. Like she expected a fucking pat on the back for her honesty.

And sure. I was calm.

But now I’m not.

Now, the rage is crawling in. That slow, cold kind. The one that feels like static under your skin. The one that doesn’t scream—it seethes.

He used her. She got humiliated. Fine.

Then what? She found me . And I fucking worshipped her, didn’t I? Wasn’t our relationship closure enough?

No. Apparently not because now she wants to get closure from him.

What about me ?

Where’s the apology for me waking up for weeks in a cold bed?

For spiraling so hard I barely got through meetings without wanting to throw a chair through a window?

Where’s the fucking “I’m sorry, Lucian, for making you feel like our whole relationship was a goddamn lie”?

I punch the counter.

Not hard enough to break it. Just enough to hurt. It dulls nothing though.

The truth is—I let it happen. I let the topic fade. I told myself it didn’t matter. That we were starting over.

But now?

Now I know they sat across from each other. Reminiscing like old fucking friends. Talking about the night that devastated me.

Wait. No. I wasn’t even a topic of discussion. This was only about his mistake. Her alleged humiliation. Nothing about me.

Where the fuck is my closure?

Something inside me is cracking open and it’s not fucking pretty.

I walk back into the bedroom, every part of me tense, my skin crawling like it’s trying to peel off my bones.

I grab my phone.

Scroll. Find the name I haven’t touched in more than a year. I hit unblock and type the message with the kind of clarity that only comes from fury.

Me: Meet me at this address in half an hour.

Send.

And then I sit on the edge of my bed. Breathing hard.

Feeling like the man I was becoming has been swallowed whole by the man I used to be.

And god help me—I don’t know which one of us is about to show up.

??????

“What did you just say?”

My voice comes out a hiss. I’m barely holding myself back from lunging across the room from my armchair and rearranging his guilt-wracked face.

It hasn’t even been five fucking minutes since Tim walked into my apartment, and I already feel like I’m suffocating. The air’s thick. My thoughts are static. Reality and memory are blurring, bleeding into each other like an old wound.

He’s perched on the edge of my couch like a man half his size, rubbing his palms over his jeans. Slouching. Trying to make himself look small.

Good. He should.

“It wasn’t her fault,” he says quietly, his voice cracking. “Karina told me you were dating someone named Aarohi and I—fuck—don’t blame Karina, Lucian. I couldn’t help it. I needed to see it for myself.”

I drag both hands through my hair, gripping the back of my head like I’m trying to keep my skull from splitting open.

“You’re back in my city because... what? You didn’t want me to move on? You wanted to play the fucking victim now?”

“No, I—”

“WHAT?”

The word explodes out of me, my palm slamming down on the armrest with a crack. The echo punches through the room. He flinches.

“I just...” he stammers. “I wanted to see you. I wanted to apologize.”

Apologize .

The word rings in my head like a fucking bell.

He swallows hard, eyes damp. “I didn’t expect—fuck—I didn’t believe it before. But I know now. I know neither of us has really moved on. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tears slip down his face. And for a fraction of a second, I see him as he used to be.

The man who made breakfast while I brushed Cooper’s fur. The man who used to hold me like I was the only solid thing in his life. The man who whispered I love you into my mouth every night.

But the second I blink, the image shatters.

Because that same man told me he loved me one morning—and fucked someone else that night.

Disgust crawls up my throat.

“Lucian,” he says, gingerly getting up, stepping toward me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

He kneels in front of me. Kneels. Like this is some kind of confession booth and I’m his goddamn savior.

His fingers graze my wrist, but I fold my arms tight against my chest. He looks up at me, his eyes raw with guilt, hope, and fuck— love .

“Lucian, I made a mistake. But I can’t live without you anymore.”

He swallows again, blinking fast. “When I realized it was her, the same girl, I... I knew you hadn’t moved on either.”

My heart stops.

“I need you back,” he says, voice trembling. “ Please .”

His hand lifts, like he’s about to cup my face. Like I’m still his.

Like this is still his right.

I jump up so fast he stumbles back on his heels. He grabs my arm as he stands up—big mistake.

I tear my arm free and shove him. He stumbles again, hits the wall behind him with a thud.

“Baby, please—just listen.” He’s scrambling now. Desperate.

“Why else would you be dating her?” he says, eyes wide, voice cracking with some twisted kind of hope. “You wanted something, right? Revenge? To get even with me?” He exhales shakily. “Well, you did. You have. I’m here . And I’m fucking sorry.”

What the actual fuck?

“You’re fucking deluded,” I snap, shoving him again. “Me dating her has nothing to do with you!”

That’s when I see it—something shifts in his face.

His mouth sets into a flat line. His jaw ticks. He’s irritated.

Because I just stripped him of the fantasy that he still mattered. To me.

“Really?” he says sharply, voice still shaking but edged with something sour. “You’re telling me I wasn’t in your head when you asked her out? That it didn’t occur to you that I’d be the one most hurt if I found out?”

His volume rises. His breath speeds.

“Oh, let me guess,” he spits. “You wanted some kind of twisted revenge, right? A little power play? Is it one of your deranged kinks now? Sharing the same woman—dipping your di—”

That’s it. My body moves before my brain. One second he’s standing—

The next he’s slammed into the fucking wall, my forearm pinning him by the throat.

“You don’t talk about her,” I growl, my voice ice. “Not now. Not ever again.”

He doesn’t fight back. Just stares at me, wide-eyed, mouth parted, breath shallow.

He’s trembling now.

But I don’t feel pity.

I feel rage.

I shove him one last time, then step back, turning away to collect myself.

My hands are shaking. My vision tunnels. I’m reeling, barely keeping my fury from detonating again—until he says something that snaps the restraint clean in half.

“She’s a rebound, Lucian. She’s an illusion.”

My jaw clenches. “She’s not,” I mutter.

Even to my own ears, it doesn’t sound convincing.

“Lucian—”

“Get out.” I whirl back toward him, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the front door. I don’t care how pathetic or broken he looks. I want him gone .

“Wait—please. Just listen,” he stammers. “You’re making a mistake, baby.”

Suddenly, he shoves out of my grip, stumbling backward, and shouts. “I lied, okay?! I lied!”

I freeze.

“I didn’t want to bring it up. But... I lied to you when I said she didn’t know I wasn’t single. Because I thought she won’t be in our lives anyway. I wanted to spare her the embarrassment. But now you’re with her and I...I can’t . That night, she saw the photo in the entryway...”

My heart slows. My blood feels like it’s thickening in my veins.

“You remember that picture?” he asks softly, a dazed smile on his face. “The one we took in Chicago? With the Bean in the background?”

I swallow hard. I remember.

He’d bitched the whole ten kilometers we walked. Complained about the crowd. I snapped the selfie anyway. He’d smiled. Then frowned immediately when he saw how tiny the Bean looked in the background. I kissed his frown away then.

I look at him. Silently urging him to continue but internally begging that he doesn’t.

He nods. “She saw it. Asked about it. And I told her—you were my boyfriend. I told her I was seeing someone.”

The room spins. My stomach turns cold. No.

“And she said she was fine with it. As long as I was fine too.”

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

“I just... wanted to see if I could do it. You know? I didn’t expect it to go that far. But she didn’t stop me, Lucian. I was wrong—I know that. But you’re making a mistake with her.”

I don’t respond.

Because I’m not here anymore.

My mind is crashing in on itself. My memories of her—every one of them—warp. Her hesitance. Her guilt. Her quiet apologies. The trembling in her voice.

But all I hear is ’she said she was fine with it’.

I lift my gaze to him. Study his face. I want to catch a flicker of deceit. A crack in the story. Something to grab onto. Something to blame.

But there’s nothing.

Just sincerity. And guilt. And something that looks like triumph hidden beneath shame.

I don’t know if he was lying then or if he’s lying now. All I feel is hopelessness. Inability to gauge anyone’s motives. I don’t feel the confidence of knowing black from white—lies from truth.

And I fall.

Not for him. Not for the past. But into something much darker. A hollow pit that eats away at the part of me I’d only just started to rebuild.

With her. Fuck .

The next thing I know, I’m at some seedy bar—alone, drunk out of my fucking mind. Saturday rush is stifling me.

A hand trails up and down my forearm. I shift slightly and come face to face with a woman. Full lips, bedroom eyes, that practiced sultry smile that says she knows exactly what she’s doing.

I don’t think. I don’t feel. I just let it happen.

I throw a few flirtatious lines. Some slurred charm. I barely remember her name—Chrissy? Christina?

I take her home anyway.

Somewhere between the streetlamp outside and my apartment door, a part of me remembers the text.

Aarohi.

She sent it after she finished her shift. Said she will swing by after completing her assignment. Might already be there.

But I don’t stop.

I can’t stop.

I’m not even sure I want to anymore.

My body moves on autopilot, my mind cracked open and spilling. I let the self-destruction bleed through every action, every decision.

We stumble into the apartment. It’s quiet. Empty.

She’s not here... yet.

The woman presses against me, fingers curling into my shirt, mumbling something into my neck before her lips find mine. Wet. Eager. Off.

Everything about this feels off.

Kissing her feels like dragging my face through shattered glass. Like someone took a blowtorch to my insides and left me to blister.

But I let it happen anyway.

We’re in my bedroom. Clothes hit the floor in quick succession. Hers, mostly. I can’t even be bothered.

She drops to her knees in front of me, trying—desperately—to stir my limp cock to life. But I’m not there. I’m not with her.

I’m in her café.

I’m watching the way Rohi’s smile curls just before she greets a customer. I’m remembering the way she tucks her chin when she is nervous. The way she trembled when she told me the truth—maybe lies.

I don’t feel desire. I feel dread.

My ears are glued to the front door.

And then—I hear it.

The soft metallic click of the lock turning.

She’s here.

Time slows.

And I prepare myself—for annihilation of my own damn making.