Page 44 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

“Gimme that,” I snap at Liam when he tries to grab my sunglasses from my bag.

“Fucker,” he grumbles.

He’s in a plain white shirt and jeans, looking like a lost tourist, while I’m wearing the yellow kurta Rohi picked out for today’s Haldi ceremony. And unlike most events so far, this one’s in the blistering heat under a sun that’s clearly out for blood.

I catch Liam eyeing my outfit with envy. I just smirk, slipping my sunglasses on as we step outside.

It’s surreal that last night even happened.

The memory of holding her—after so long—is still imprinted on my skin. She was trembling, crying. And when she broke, something inside me did too. I hadn’t meant to cry, but I couldn’t stop.

I don’t know why she sobbed like that. Not exactly. I only hope it wasn’t from hurt . But even if it was... she still clung to me.

How do you reconcile that? Being both the reason someone breaks and the only place they find peace?

The contradiction of it all is maddening. And humbling . But I needed to see it. Needed that release. The last time I saw her like that was the night in the park—and then never again. She kept it all locked away.

So last night... it felt like a cleansing .

And when it ended, she just left. Quietly. Her eyes heavy with sleep. Or heartbreak. Maybe both.

I don’t know what it meant. Was it closure? Or the start of something new?

I shove the panic-ridden thought aside as we reach the courtyard—and get hit by a blinding wall of yellow.

Everyone’s in yellow. Kurtas, sarees, salwars. Except Liam, of course, who now looks like a monochrome outcast in a desi fever dream.

There’s a stunning white gazebo near the center hall entrance, decked in white and yellow flowers.

Underneath it, two massive shallow metal tubs with lotuses—where Vikram and Ishika sit, grinning as a priest chants rituals.

A few bowls of yellow paste surround them—which I’m guessing is the turmeric paste.

I spot Ishika’s parents with them. And Vikram’s too. Then, instinctively, my eyes search the crowd for the only person I care about.

And there she is.

A vision in a soft yellow salwar suit that fits her waist like a damn melody. A delicate white flower crown sits in her hair, and those mirrored sunglasses reflect the world like she owns it.

God , she’s a masterpiece.

And I want to be her museum.

Yeah, I know how that sounds. Corny as hell. I don’t even know what I mean by it. But I don’t care. I just want her back . Entirely. Honestly. Undeniably .

But I don’t know where she stands. Not after last night.

She’s with her parents, Kashvi, and a few others—including Advik. My jaw tenses, but I force it to relax. He’s not even looking at her. He’s talking to Navya... and from the looks of it, not nicely .

Whatever. I have bigger priorities.

Liam and I weave through the crowd while upbeat Bollywood music pulses through the courtyard. A few people are dancing, some just swaying and laughing in the sun. A couple of kids nearly crash into me and I dodge them.

And then—I see her turn.

She finds me in the crowd like a magnet.

And for the first time in forever... she smiles.

Not a hesitant, polite smile.

Not a tired, wary smile.

A full-on, radiant grin.

Like she sees me—and wants me here.

My heart actually stutters.

Please, god, don’t take this from me.

Before Rohi can reach me, Kiki Aunty saunters over, beaming.

“Oh, you look so handsome, beta !” she says, her voice sugary sweet. I can’t help but grin—she’s genuinely one of the kindest people here. Always looking out for me like I’m one of her own.

“Raj!” she yells over the music, waving her husband over. “This is the embroidered pattern I was talking about!”

She brushes a hand over my chest where the design is stitched, and I chuckle. Uncle’s in a plain yellow kurta, and the way he eyes mine? Straight-up fashion envy.

And he’s not the only one.

Liam grunts beside me.

Raj uncle grumbles playfully. “I told you it’s for the younger crowd, Kiki. I didn’t want to outshine the bride and groom.”

Kiki Aunty laughs and leans into her husband, murmuring something in Hindi.

That’s when Rohi reaches me—still grinning.

Gorgeous fucking woman. Find a defibrillator— fast .

“You do look handsome,” she says, light as air, propping her sunglasses up.

I tilt my head slightly and grin back. “And you look gorgeous. Always .”

Something flickers in her gaze—surprise? Awe? Whatever it is, it softens her whole face. She gives me one of her upside-down smiles, the kind that makes my heart sit down and shut up.

It feels like we’re in a little bubble.

Until Mina Aunty yells for everyone to head to the gazebo. Pop .

We start walking over, but then—I feel her fingers brush my arm.

I nearly jump. Jesus Christ .

The ceremony kicks off with cheers as family and friends begin smearing haldi paste over Ishika and Vikram. Laughter erupts from all directions.

I stand to the side, watching with something close to awe, until it’s Rohi and Kashvi’s turn.

But instead of being sweet and graceful about it, they scoop up obscene amounts of paste and slather it across the couple’s faces—cackling like gremlins.

Rohi’s laugh is so infectious I find myself laughing too, even from ten feet away.

Ishika, shrieking, lunges toward her. “Oh you’re dead!”

She grabs a fistful of paste, aiming for Rohi’s face—but Rohi dodges like a damn ninja.

And then—she runs.

Straight. At. Me.

Oh hell.

The next second, she’s using me as a human shield while Ishika tries to attack. I get flailed around like a prop, turmeric smeared everywhere—which, conveniently, blends into my yellow kurta .

But I’m laughing. Genuinely laughing.

“No, no, no! Ishi! It’s your stupid wedding!” Rohi giggles.

She darts off again, and I just watch her go—my heart thudding like it’s trying to escape.

I force myself to look away and catch Kiki Aunty watching me. Smiling . And it’s a knowing kind of smile. The kind that sees more than she lets on.

Ishika, still grumbling, climbs back into her tub as Advik and Navya step forward to take their turns.

After a few minutes, the music shifts—faster, louder—and apparently, that’s the signal.

It’s time to dance.

I don’t know any of the songs blasting from the speakers, but my stupid feet still move to the beat—mostly by copying whatever Rohi or Kashvi is doing.

Liam tries to join in, attempting a twirl with Kashvi, but she swats him away like an annoying fly. I nearly choke on my laugh.

Rohi and I find a rhythm, her gaze locked on mine as she mouths the lyrics with such intensity, it’s like she’s singing them just for me.

I lean in, half breathless. “What’s the name of this song?”

She throws her head back and yells over the music, grinning wide. “Tere Pyaar Mein!”

God . What I wouldn’t give to know Hindi right now.

“What’s that mean in English?” I shout back.

She hesitates, suddenly flustered in the most adorable way. “In... in your lo—”

We’re interrupted by the joyful shriek of Kiki Aunty.

“Mumma!”

She inserts herself right between us like a wrecking ball of maternal chaos. One second we’re a duo, the next—we’re a trio.

Wait. What was Rohi about to say? In your... what? Love?

Fuuuck.

And then Kiki Aunty strikes. Her hands—suspiciously fisted—reveal blobs of turmeric paste, which she gleefully smears onto both our cheeks at the same time.

Before I can even process it, she laughs and waltzes off.

I wipe at my cheek, still moving to the beat, until I glance at Rohi—and freeze.

She’s gone still. Not dancing. Not blinking .

I gently take her by the arm and turn her toward me.

She shakes her head once, dazed, and then lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. Like she can’t quite believe what just happened.

I don’t know what possesses me, but I lift my fingers—still streaked with haldi —and swipe them across the tip of her nose.

She scrunches it and smiles, slow and radiant.

We fall right back into the rhythm, dancing like two absolute idiots, too caught up in the music and each other to care.

Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she swipes a bit of paste from her own cheek and smears it on my nose.

My random little gesture returned.

Then Kashvi drags my Rohi away from me—straight into a circle of giggling, dancing women. Their laughter rises over the beat.

Wait... I know this song. Kala Chashma.

Kiki Aunty told me it meant “black goggles” or something. Fitting—nearly everyone’s wearing sunglasses now, including Rohi. She looks like a goddess .

The playlist shifts rapidly, each song bleeding into the next. Everyone is lost in their own blissful rhythm.

I wander to a quieter corner, grabbing a glass of coke. Watching her.

That’s all I ever do these days. Watch her. Want her. Wonder. Hope .

A few minutes pass before Kashvi saunters over to me, building what looks like a very chaotic cocktail of vodka, tonic, and something orange.

She takes one sip before side-eyeing me. “Do you even know what just happened?”

My gaze finally pulls from Rohi. “What do you mean?”

She grins, like I’m an idiot. “Kiki Aunty smearing haldi on both of you? That’s like... an informal blessing , dumbass.”

My brows shoot up. I scan the crowd for Aunty, who’s dancing and vibing like she just blessed no big deal.

“Really?” I ask, dazed.

Kashvi nods, eyes sparkling with mischief. “And Rohi smearing it back on you? At someone else’s function?” She leans in dramatically. “That’s millennial code for I want you. Bad .”

I blink.

“She wants me?” The words sound broken coming out. My voice cracks halfway through.

Kashvi snorts. “Yes, Lucifer, she wants you. What a hilariously dumb way to say it, too.” She’s laughing, but I... I’m spiraling.

Defibrillator. Immediately .

I can’t breathe.

She wants me?

Rohi wants me.

She wants me.

“What?” I whisper, eyes locking onto Rohi across the courtyard. She’s laughing and dancing with Ishika and Vikram now. Carefree. Bright.

Kashvi watches me unravel. Then grabs my arm, turning me to face her.

“Are you okay?” she asks, voice suddenly concerned. “You’re— ugh —sweating.”

“She... she...” I feel the tears sting. Not crying. Just... overwhelmed.

Kashvi’s eyes widen in horror. “Oh my God . No. Stop— stop that!” She punches my arm. “Are you cryi—” she gags like the word physically offends her. “You’re cry—” she gags again and then storms off, muttering, “Bleach. I need bleach for my brain.”

I’m not technically crying. Just tearing up because the woman I thought I lost forever just told me—in her own chaotic, very Indian way—that maybe, just maybe ... she wants me too.

After everything. After all I broke. After what I put her through.

I slump into a small metal chair behind me, like my knees just gave up trying to hold all this emotion.

She wants me.

Jesus Christ .

I wipe at my eyes discreetly, stare down at my brown sandals, and do my best not to explode into fucking confetti.

I’m so lost in thought, still reeling from everything—what it means, what could be—when a soft blur invades my view.

A delicate finger touches my chin, gently tipping it up.

Rohi is standing there like a dream. Backlit by the sun, she’s nothing short of a silhouette carved straight out of my wildest imaginings. Golden light outlines her, her loose hair catching the breeze, her expression quiet but so full—of emotion, of intent—that I almost come undone all over again.

Her giggles are gone now. Instead, she’s smiling at me like I matter. Like I’ve always mattered. And I— God —I smile back, trying to hold it together.

Her eyes flick around the courtyard, scanning the crowd, looking for someone—something. Then, as if confirming a secret, she bends forward.

And presses the softest, lightest kiss to my forehead.

My eyes shut on instinct.

The contact barely lasts two seconds, but every cell in my body lights up, humming from the contact.

Then she grabs my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor again.

I think we’re going to join the chaos, but I realize something else is happening. A circle is forming. A group of us—cousins, friends, siblings— banding together to create a privacy shield around Ishika and Vikram. Keeping the aunties and uncles from seeing what’s clearly a plan.

I catch Liam being yanked into place by Kashvi, who looks like she’s about to throw up but in a theatrical, overly dramatic way. I chuckle.

And then the chants begin.

“Go! Go, go!”

Vikram spins Ishika in a twirl, dips her with flair, his hand bold at her waist. They’re both laughing... until they’re not. Vikram steals a kiss. Not just any kiss—a real one. One that drips with history and love and promises whispered long before today.

It’s the kind of kiss that buckles knees and silences crowds.

Without thinking, I squeeze Rohi’s hand.

And to my utter shock and relief, she squeezes back .

My heart thunders. I lower my head slightly, lean in—and press a gentle kiss to her temple. Just barely there. Just enough.

She startles, looking up at me, eyes shining. A hint of a tear. Panic flares for a second. Did I go too far?

But then she pouts—an impossibly soft little frown as she tries not to melt—and I forget what fear even is.

We smile.

And just like that, our bubble wraps around us again.