Page 42 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

“Oh my god, relax !” Navya snaps, dragging me out of the melted puddle I’ve become.

“I was trying to help you,” she keeps digging. “Trying to make you understand that you’re wasting your time. She’s moved on.”

“And yet I remain unconvinced,” Lucian deadpans.

Oh yes , he does.

Wait—no. I’m so flustered I accidentally step closer to the vibrating mess that is Navya, as if proximity will help.

“Navya, go back inside,” I say as gently as I can. “This is between us. You don’t need to be part of this.”

She doesn’t budge.

“Go,” Lucian sighs, long and exasperated.

She finally huffs and stomps off, muttering a string of Hindi curses under her breath. Lucian probably doesn’t catch them—but knowing his luck, someone has definitely spoiled him enough to understand.

Once she’s gone, I walk over and stop right in front of him—right where she’d been standing. But unlike before, he doesn’t lean back this time. He steps closer .

“I panicked when I saw you,” he admits with a sigh. “Didn’t know what you might’ve heard.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Only the part where you told her she has nothing to worry about because you and I aren’t together.”

His eyes go wide. “Fuck. I hope you believe me when I say—”

“Oh, I do ,” I cut in, shrugging. “I believe you wouldn’t... go there .”

His shoulders sag. The relief on his face is instant and overwhelming.

“You believe me,” he says, like he’s still processing it.

He sinks onto the bench and drags a hand over his face, eyes staring toward the dark edges of the garden. He’s tense—too still, too silent.

I take a seat beside him. Not close. A full foot of space between us. But then something pushes me—I don’t even know what—and I reach out, resting my hand gently on his shoulder. A simple squeeze.

He exhales, like his entire body just remembered how to breathe. The tension drains from him in waves.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes squeezing shut. “This is the first time you’ve touched me since... well. In a long time.”

My lips part. Is that true?

Shit . It is.

We sit there quietly, the silence stretching but never heavy. I don’t move my hand.

Slowly—carefully—he reaches up and lets his fingers brush against mine. The jolt hits instantly. The fear. The pain. The ache. The love .

But I don’t pull away.

“Aarohi—”

“Rohi,” I correct gently.

His reaction is immediate. His head turns toward me, eyes slightly wide.

“Rohi,” he repeats, smiling softly. Then he nods. “I was going to say... well, ask actually. Do you think you have thirty minutes tomorrow? At exactly this time?”

I frown. “What for?”

He hesitates. Just for a second. Like he’s about to bail on whatever he’s about to say. But then I watch him square his shoulders, power through it, and speak anyway.

“There’s a Canadian non-profit called Kind Mirror ,” he says, voice low but steady. “I’ve been... I’ve been working with them for the past month. Helping them develop a new program.”

He clears his throat, like something’s lodged there.

“They already have one in place—for people going through healthy weight loss and mental recovery. It includes therapy, nutrition guidance... all that. But I’m helping build something for the other side of the spectrum.”

I blink.

I don’t speak. Because what even is there to say when someone just casually hits you in the heart like that?

He went and did that .

For me?

“You... what? You’re like a member?” I ask, still trying to piece it together.

He gives me a soft, almost shy smile. “No. Just a volunteer. And donor.”

My mouth falls open. “What—what do you need me for?”

He pauses, then answers carefully. “They’re building a more inclusive model.

And they’re looking to include voices from people who’ve lived it.

I didn’t promise anything, okay? I just told them I’d ask you.

If you were willing to share your experience.

Along with a few others. For the sake of shaping something that. .. actually helps.”

My breathing picks up.

I can feel the tight pressure behind my eyes, the way my chest pinches from the sheer ache of how thoughtful this is. He didn’t tell me. He just did it. Quietly. Intentionally.

And it’s almost too much.

Because this Lucian?

This is the man I will fall for so easily . The one who sees people’s bruises and tries to soften the world around them. The one who used to break things, yes—but is now trying to build.

For me.

For others like me.

God , it’s absurd how sweet it is. Absurd. And painful. And stupidly kind.

And I think I might actually cry.

“I was talking to one of the directors just now,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know they’d planned interviews to build the program. Thought I’d... ask you. Do you want to?”

His voice is so soft— so careful —that it disarms me completely. My throat tightens, and before I can stop it, my chin wobbles.

He notices instantly. Of course he does.

“Hey...” his hands reach out, settling gently on my shoulders. It’s a cautious touch. Restrained . And it frustrates the hell out of me.

Because I want more . I want the way he used to hold my face like I was something precious. Something real .

“Oh, Rohi,” he whispers, voice laced with concern. “You don’t have to. It’s absolutely fine. Really .”

But I shake my head quickly. That’s not why I’m crying, and he’s getting it all wrong.

A tear slips down my cheek.

Wipe it, asshole!

And it’s like he hears it—like the command was loud and clear in the silence between us—because the next second, his hands lift to cradle my face. Gently. His thumb brushes under my eye.

“Then why are you crying?” he asks, voice low. “Did... did I shock you too much?”

He gives me this cocky little smile and I roll my eyes, exasperated despite the tears.

He chuckles, the sound warm in his chest. And I swear I almost dissolve into a puddle again—right there on the damn bench—because this man, this moment, feels like something I’ve missed for months... even when I had it.

“I’ll do the... interview thing,” I finally say. “I want to.”

He nods, his smile soft but unwavering, hands still cradling my face like he’s afraid to let go.

I try not to move—don’t want to break whatever this moment is. But the second I shift even slightly, Lucian pulls back. Like he suddenly remembered he shouldn’t be touching me. Like he thinks I wouldn’t want him to.

He clears his throat, shifting away. “When uh... when will tomorrow’s ceremony end? Will it be another late night?”

I swallow the disappointment, tuck it deep. “No, I don’t think so. It’s just the Sagan ceremony. And the Chunni thing. Should wrap up by evening.”

“Okay,” he nods, frowning like he’s already scheduling it in his head. “So you’ll be free. I’ll email the director and CC you. If you change your mind at any point, just say so. You can cancel. Your choice , okay?”

“I want to, Lucian,” I say again, firmer now. “It sounds... important. And I think I want to be part of something like that. Even if it’s just a small part.”

He smiles and we fall into a deep silence.

It’s becoming our norm—this quiet. But this one is different. It hums with all the things left unsaid. Not jabs. Not wounds. Not regrets. But something else. Something softer .

“You did this, huh?” I ask eventually, breaking the stillness.

He exhales and gives a slow, rueful nod. “I... listen. At first, I honestly didn’t remember saying those awful things. And when I did—when I realized they actually came out of my mouth— fuck , I wanted to erase that moment. But I can’t. Not for me. Not for you .”

He looks down at his hands. His voice is quieter now, rougher. “I can’t stop you from remembering those words. From hearing them again and again. But I realized... there are so many people who go through this. Who hear shit like that and just... take it. Absorb it. Feel worse because of it.”

He lifts his gaze again, something raw in his eyes. “So instead of being the person who caused that hurt... I wanted to be part of the solution . Does that make sense?”

My smile creeps up before I can stop it. Startled. Real. “It does make sense.”

Because it does.

And I’m realizing it now—that it’s not just his words. It’s how he says them now. He’s different from the man who once chased me with half-apologies and borrowed charm.

In fact his apologies aren’t empty anymore. They carry weight—and layers . They come with reflection, with understanding. His body language isn’t defensive, it’s open. Grounded. Like he’s actually ready to have hard conversations—without hiding.

He’s... different. I knew that already.

But this is the first time I actually believe it.