Page 46 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

I can’t believe this.

I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life, and the frustration just won’t quit.

What the hell have I done?

I glance at Kash, who’s lounging beside me—calm, composed, radiating peace.

I try to absorb some of that serenity through sheer proximity. It doesn’t work.

“Rohi, just—”

“Stop!” I snap, cutting her off with the rage of a woman who’s made a fatal tactical error.

I groan, staring down at my hands—both slathered in thick, cold mehendi (henna), all the way to my elbows in beautifully intricate designs.

I should’ve brought a glass of water with a straw.

Instead, I’m dehydrated. Dying. Desperate .

The main hall is packed—dozens of aunties sprawled across couches, getting their own henna done by the crew of artists floating around the room.

My mom, Ishika and a few others are upstairs, getting theirs done together in her room.

There’s the occasional burst of laughter, the hum of aunties low-key gossiping like it’s a paid job.

Meanwhile, I’m parched. With zero mobility. And no hands to actually hold a glass. Not without ruining the henna.

“You’re overreacti—”

I growl at Kash. Loudly.

She blinks. “Ooookay. Normal Rohi has left the building.”

“I haven’t had a drop of water since dinner. Which I had at eight. It’s one a.m., Kashvi. One. I’ve been drinking since then. I am dehydrated. I am dying. DYING!”

She gives me a deadpan stare. “Poor Lucifer.”

And as if her words summon him from thin air— there he is.

Lucian, casually walking past the main hall, carrying a box like some kind of bridal logistics prince.

Instead of calling out politely like a normal person, I channel every cell in my body and scream .

“LUCIAN!”

He freezes like he just got sniped.

When he turns, he looks panicked, wide-eyed, ready to break down a door. I can see the aftermath of a massive flinch.

A pang of guilt smacks me right in the chest.

He sprints over. Full-on sprints.

Kashvi, ever the opportunist, raises an impressed brow. “Ooooh. Let me try.”

She turns her head and belts out, “LIAAAMMM!”

I blink. “Where even is he—”

Oh— there he is.

Running toward her like a loyal golden retriever, one shoe half on.

“Damn. It works,” Kash mutters, clearly plotting world domination.

Meanwhile, Lucian reaches me. Drops the box onto a couch mid-stride, then drops to his knees beside me, right next to the poor henna lady who’s still carefully tracing out her little masterpiece amidst my mental breakdown.

“Hey—hey! What’s wrong?” he asks, out of breath, eyes scanning my face. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I’m... I’m dehydrated,” I whisper, tragically.

He blinks, realization dawning, and then gives me that devastatingly soft smile.

“At your service, baby. You want anything to eat?”

From beside me, Kashvi lets out an exaggerated gag. I ignore her.

Lucian’s hand slides to my thigh in a soothing motion, then glides up to gently rub my upper arms—careful to stay above the mehendi so he doesn’t ruin a single swirl.

I shake my head. “No.”

Liam is hovering nearby, doing the same to Kashvi, except there’s no question in his tone—she’s clearly barking orders like a drill sergeant.

“I’ll be back,” Lucian says, rising to his feet, grabbing the abandoned box from earlier, and walking off.

I pout as I watch him leave. Shit. I’m already having withdrawals.

And no, I’m not even drunk. Or tipsy. I just need hydration—and him . Mostly hydration. Okay, maybe both.

Two full minutes pass. Then Lucian returns.

He has a tall steel glass in one hand and a straw peeking out.

Oh my heart.

The condensation on the glass is already making me salivate. He brings the straw to my lips with all the ceremony of a romantic hero.

I take a sip—and my eyes fly open.

“It’s... it’s... lemonade,” I whisper, shocked.

He chuckles. “Yeah. Now drink up.”

And he doesn’t move. For the next ten minutes.

Kash and I keep yapping about designs and things men wouldn’t understand. Sometimes we’d switch to Hindi—just because. She uses that opportunity to cuss Liam out with a stupid, sweet smile painted still.

Lucian stays crouched beside me like some henna guardian angel while the artist lady finishes up. His arm must be sore. His knees probably hate him. But he doesn’t flinch.

I sip slowly, like the dramatic queen I am, as I feel my brain finally come back online. Hydration is magic .

Once the henna is done and the glass is empty, Lucian casually picks up my phone and helps me up, steadying me as I wobble—my legs tingling with pins and needles.

“Get that bowl too,” I tell him, pointing with a delicate nod. “It has... um... lemon and coconut oil.”

Without hesitation, he grabs it. No questions.

We make our way toward my room. My left hand is dry now—the artist started with it—so I’m not completely helpless anymore . But I mean... let’s not waste a golden opportunity.

They say once the mehendi dries, you rub on lemon juice and coconut oil to deepen the stain and make it last longer.

Could I do it myself? Absolutely.

Will I? Not a chance.

Because why would I, when Lucian Vale can do it for me?

Which is why, a few minutes later, we’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing each other in silence as he gently dabs the lemon juice and coconut oil mixture onto my dried mehendi with a cotton ball.

The quiet, for once, feels beautiful.

He’s focused—far too focused for such a simple task—and somehow, that makes me melt. Every so often, he pauses to admire the intricate designs, trailing his eyes along each swirl like it’s sacred.

And I wonder—will he find it?

The little message I had the artist hide in the design?

Shit .

I hope not. Not yet. Not before I say what I need to say.

So I begin. Because there’s no point delaying anymore.

“What if...” I whisper, and he stills. “What if all this—you coming to India, helping me, apologizing, confessing —what if it’s just another elaborate plan? Part of something bigger I don’t know about yet?”

His jaw tightens. He exhales softly, not defensive—just... sad.

“I think,” he says carefully, resuming the dabs, “you asking that question to me means you don’t really believe it’s true. But you’re scared it could be.”

I nod slowly. The cotton ball swipes gently over my hand again.

Then, without thinking, I blurt, “I... I can’t have sex without clothes on. Not yet.”

His hand freezes.

His head snaps up, and for a full minute, he doesn’t move or say anything. His lips part slightly, but no sound comes. Lemon-oil droplets slip off the cotton and land on my hand, but neither of us care.

He just stares at me—with something between sorrow and devastation. And I stare back, unsure if I should’ve said anything at all.

Then he whispers, “What the hell have I done?”

His voice is raw. Fractured. He swallows hard and finally resumes the soft dabbing, his touch now even gentler.

“It’s not just you,” I say quietly. “Lucian... I was doing better, okay? You were kind, patient, careful. You made me feel like I was sexy to you. But after everything... I spent months wondering if all of that had been a lie. A long con.”

His breath catches.

I swallow past the ache in my throat. “When I saw her... that woman ... she was so... well, I started wondering if you were imagining someone else when we—”

He drops the cotton ball.

“Never,” he says, his voice rough, eyes flashing. “Not once. Not for a second . I was with you, Rohi. Always. In my mind, in my heart, in my fucking bloodstream . There was never anyone else.”

His words are beautiful. But it’s the way he says them—with grit and anguish—that nearly cracks me open.

The silence returns, but this time, he’s the one to break it.

“I never processed what Tim did to me,” he begins, voice low.

“I should have. I should’ve given myself time to sit with it, to talk about it.

Instead, I kicked him out and moved on like it was nothing.

I never really looked inward. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have turned to drinking.

Wouldn’t have let myself rot from the inside out until I became a man who could hurt you—or anyone. ”

My breath catches. His shame is palpable.

“My therapist, Alan, told me I have a habit of moving on instead of moving through . That’s how I coped with my parents’ divorce.

With every relationship since. And with Tim?

I didn’t just move on—I buried it. Deep.

Too deep. He cheated on me while I was thinking of us as something solid.

And that broke something in me. I never got closure but.

.. it wasn’t his to give . It was mine to build . ”

I remember his ravaged face from that night. It wasn’t just a man who was cruel. It was a man who I saw breaking in real time.

“Lucian...”

“And then I became him.” He pauses to collect himself.

“Worse. I became a man who could think of someone else as... as a tool for my own broken selfishness. To gain closure by spewing the... the ugliness that Tim gave me, out into the world. Because I thought I was... I was owed that. And when I came here, all I wanted was to make sure that never happened to you. I didn’t want you to bury this pain. I wanted to help you move through it.”

His voice softens, almost reverent. “But you didn’t need me.

You were already stronger than I’ve ever been.

And when I realized that, all I wanted..

. was to be someone you didn’t look back on with regret.

Someone you could believe in again. Because the man you saw during our relationship—the one who cooked for you, held you, bought you the plushy slippers, who refused to take the bracelet off.

.. he was real . I was trying, Rohi. Maybe not enough.

Maybe not in time. But I was trying . To come back. ”

He smiles faintly, brokenly.

“Well... until I wasn’t. Until I broke us.”

I don’t even realize I’ve been crying until he reaches up and gently wipes the tears away with his clean hand.

But they don’t stop.