Page 35 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

No fucking way.

Is he really— really —wearing a perfectly tailored sherwani ? Am I hallucinating?

“Oh. My. God,” Kashvi gasps beside me. “Turns out Satan can dress like an angel.”

I grimace, shaking my head. “Satan was an angel, Kash.”

“Aww, am I talking to vagina-operated Rohi right now?” she shoots back.

“What? No!” My jaw drops. “Dudette—Satan. In the Bible . He was literally an angel.”

She shrugs like she didn’t just shatter my brain and loops her arm through mine. She’s dragging me toward the dance floor, but my eyes are still locked on the teal-wrapped menace across the floor.

Who the hell gave him that sherwani ? And why does it fit like a sin?

Just as Kash releases me, an arm wraps around my bare waist. I’m wearing a lavender lehenga and choli. A beautiful pink and purple stone-studded piece. My dupatta is pinned on one shoulder. And a tiny pouch tied on my waist currently carries my lipstick and my phone.

I turn, only to find myself face to face with Advik. A smile creeps onto my lips when I realize— oh, of course —he’s also wearing lavender. His sherwani is embroidered, not bejeweled like mine, but the match is unmistakable.

“Hey,” he smirks, leaning in. “We match, baby.”

My startled laugh gets swallowed by the pulsing music.

My gaze slides over his shoulder—back to where Lucian had been standing moments ago, talking to my mother.

Only now... he’s not talking.

He’s staring .

Staring right at me. Me—in the arms of someone else. Even if it is strictly PG.

And for a split second, there’s fury in his eyes. Raw. Unfiltered.

But then—just like that—it’s gone.

Wiped clean. A blank canvas.

I don’t have time to dwell on Lucian’s stare because the dreaded moment is here—the dance-off is about to begin.

Kashvi, two of my cousins, Simran (Ishika’s best friend), and I are repping the bride’s side. We’ll be going head-to-head with Vikram’s smug little army of cronies.

And me? I’m dressed for battle, bitch.

Ishika, in true chaotic fashion, is playing emcee for the night. She snatches the mic from the DJ like she owns the place and skips—yes, skips —to the center of the dance floor, glittering like a disco ball on a mission.

Vikram is right behind her, circling like he already knows he’s winning, a cocky little smirk playing on his lips.

This is war. With choreography.

The music fades into the background as Ishi grins at the crowd, cheeks glowing from excitement or alcohol—possibly both.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she begins dramatically. “Tonight’s Sangeet isn’t just about singing and dancing. No, no. It’s war .”

The crowd laughs. She continues in a combination of Hindi and English.

“We’ve got Team Bride versus Team Groom! In one corner, we have me—your very fair and very biased host—and in the other, my fiancé, Vikram, who I’ll marry only if he doesn’t embarrass us tonight.”

More laughter.

“Both teams have rehearsed. There’s sweat, there’s blisters, there are cousins threatening to disown each other—but tonight, we put all that aside. Because now? It’s showtime! ”

Cheers erupt around the courtyard.

I catch Lucian out of the corner of my eye. He’s standing at the edge, leaning slightly into my mom, who’s gesturing wildly with her hands, clearly translating everything Ishika just said. Lucian smiles—laughs even.

God . Why does he have to look so... soft? So here ?

But the music kicks on and there’s no time to spiral.

We take center stage first—me, Kash, Simran, and my two cousins—striking poses we’ve practiced in front of mirrors like it was a religion.

The opening beats of “London Thumakda” blast through the speakers, and suddenly I’m no longer thinking about heartbreak or betrayal or the teal sherwani in the audience.

I’m thinking about rhythm. Precision. Sass.

We twirl. We stomp. We laugh. Every coordinated turn makes the crowd scream louder. By the time “What Jhumka?” begins, my breath is short and sweat beads at the base of my neck, but I live for this.

My dupatta flares behind me as I spin, arms raised. And that’s when I glance at Lucian.

He’s not laughing anymore.

He’s watching. Reverently. Like I’m something sacred. His eyes are locked on me, lips parted slightly, chest rising with the kind of stillness that only comes when you’re afraid to even breathe. And maybe I’m imagining it, but I think he mouths something—

Beautiful .

And just like that, I almost miss my next step. Almost .

But I recover with flair and spin one last time, dropping into our final pose. We finish to thunderous claps and dramatic hooting from the bride’s side.

Before I can fully catch my breath, Vikram’s crew takes the floor. Advik gives me a smirk before heading to his team. They begin with “Maahi Ve” , and the vibe shifts. Their movements are smooth, elegant—like a love letter in motion. They’re not trying to outshine anyone—they’re just feeling it.

Then comes “Kala Chashma”. Vikram and Ishika take center for that one, acting out scenes that remind us all of their almost decade-long, slightly dysfunctional, absolutely unbreakable relationship.

Even I’m grinning like a fool. Even if my heart feels envious.

It’s well past 2 am when the music finally dies down. The last few sparklers fizzle out in the courtyard and the DJ packs up his gear.

My lehenga weighs a thousand kilos, my earrings have fused into my earlobes, and my feet are currently hosting a small protest inside my heels.

I’ve been limping for the past hour and I’m pretty sure I have blisters the size of my fist. I should’ve stopped after the hundredth song, dammit.

Advik and I sneak away to the quieter side of the groom’s mansion, both of us nursing a lowball of whiskey. We sit on a stone ledge. I lean back and stretch my legs, sighing as the cool night air brushes my skin.

“Feet hurting?” he asks, sipping slowly.

“Oh, only like they’ve been stabbed repeatedly by tiny daggers,” I mutter.

He snorts. “You danced like a maniac though. So it’s your fault. Still—you killed it.”

“I always kill it,” I say with a smirk.

We lapse into silence, watching a few drunk uncles stumble across the courtyard, arms around each other like war buddies.

Then, Advik asks, gently, “Hey... you okay with him being here?”

I pause.

Lucian .

“I mean... do you feel uncomfortable?” he clarifies.

I take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in my throat. “Surprisingly... no,” I answer after a beat. “I thought I would. But I don’t. I mostly feel bad for him.”

Advik raises an eyebrow. “That’s unexpected. I thought you’d have either forgiven him or told him to pack up and leave.”

I huff a laugh. “You’re not wrong. But I actually told him to stay because... I don’t know. He’s different now.”

“So... does that mean you’ve forgiven him?”

“No.”

That part comes out fast. Too fast. My fingers tighten around my glass.

Advik nods slowly. “Are you going to? Because I’m not going to lie. He looks fucking miserable.”

A dull pang hits my chest.

I keep my gaze on the moonlit edge of the mansion. “What he did... it wasn’t a small mistake, Advik. And no, I’m not going to give you details. But it was calculated. Wrong .” I glance at him. “And I don’t know if I want to be with someone who ever thought of me like that. With... disdain.”

He doesn’t say anything, just lets the weight of it land between us.

“I’m sorry,” I add quietly.

“Don’t be,” he shrugs. “You’re allowed to draw your lines. I’m just glad you’re not... crumbling when he’s around.”

I snort. “I’m dramatic, not weak .”

“You’re both.”

I laugh and lightly shove his arm. “You’re an asshole.”

He leans in slightly, grin crooked. “You still like me though.”

“Ehh... you’re alright,” I tease.

The comfort with him is easy. Always has been. I don’t have to perform with Advik. Don’t have to second-guess my body language or mask my nervous ticks. He just... knows. And he’s never made a move. Not once in all these years, until now. During this trip.

Which is why I’m hesitant now—because maybe stepping past that line ruins a good friendship.

But there’s a current tonight.

“Remember that New Year’s Eve when you sang ’Tum Se Hi’ so badly that Navya yanked the karaoke cord?”

He groans. “Why would you bring that up? I thought I blacked it out.”

“It’s basically your version of Kash’s Beedi fiasco.”

He chuckles, and his hand brushes mine. It’s casual. Familiar. But I don’t pull away.

We sit like that—quiet, our hands loosely linked.

I don’t feel the jolting spark. But I do feel the silent hum of attraction.

“I’m going back to Canada in a few weeks,” I say softly looking at our hands.

He nods. “I know.”

“What if us... kissing, ruins our friendship?” I ask cautiously. I’m not expecting to jump his bones. But I’ve spent too much time worrying about my body these past few months.

Ruth, my therapist, always says: build trust before you build intimacy.

But the truth is—I already trust Advik. I always have.

He’s never made me feel like my body was a flaw or a favor.

He once stood up to my ex for an offhand joke.

Didn’t make a show of it, just quietly pulled him aside and made it clear that I wasn’t someone to be mocked.

“Don’t take this the wrong way but... ours is the type of friendship that’s never been just friendship , Rohi,” he says.

I blink. But he’s right. We’ve always teetered on this edge—laughing too long, leaning too close. It just never became anything because life pulled us in different directions.

It’s a friendship where we’ve both known this could’ve been something. In another life. In another country. But it never had a real chance. Never will.

“So whatever this is... it stays here?” I ask.

He smiles crookedly. “Like a wedding favor. But with more sexual benefits.”

I laugh, startled. “Advik!”

“I’m kidding.” He winks. “Sort of.”

There’s something bittersweet in his voice, though. Like he knows our dynamic was always shaky but building up to this moment.

So for tonight, we’re two people sipping whiskey, caught in the soft ache of old memories and what-ifs. Cradling a kind of intimacy that feels earned—not rushed.

He finishes his drink and sets the glass beside mine. “Come on,” he says, nudging my leg. “You’re about two minutes away from passing out.”

“Am not,” I grumble, even though my spine is practically fusing with the stone wall.

He stands and offers his hand. “Chalo, chalo, utaro.” (C’mon, get down.)

I roll my eyes but take it anyway. “Where are we going?”

“My room. I haven’t kissed you properly today.”

My cheeks flush.

I hesitate—but he adds gently, “Vikram’s with Ishika. He won’t be back anytime soon.”

Right. Of course he is.

The hallway is quiet as we walk back, side by side. There’s no rush, no urgency. Just a slow-burning awareness.

When we reach the room, he unlocks the door and pushes it open. A soft yellow lamp casts the space in a golden glow.

He glances at me once as I hover near the threshold like he’s waiting for my decision.

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.

A moment later, I step inside.

His eyes search mine the second the door closes.

Not for permission—he’s too intuitive for that. No, he’s waiting for me to flinch. To change my mind. To turn back.

But I don’t.

Because I’m tired of flinching. Of denying myself the tiny scraps of comfort I actually want. With someone who I know has never looked at my body with disgust. And I need this. I need to feel comfortable because the object of my nightmare is just across the courtyard.

So I step closer, lift my hand to his jaw, and whisper, “We won’t overthink this.”

He smiles. “Wedding favor, Rohi.”

Then he just crashes his mouth to mine.

It’s not sweet. Not tentative. It’s hungry—years of buried tension pulled to the surface in one breath-stealing kiss. My back hits the door and I let it. My hands thread into his hair and he groans into my mouth.

It’s not love.

It’s not forever.

This isn’t about revenge or escape or proving anything to anyone.

This is mine .

Yes. This... this is okay for now.

Because he isn’t him . And I’m no longer her .