Page 8 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

This is harder than I thought.

I figured I could ease my way in—charm her with daily messages, give her just enough attention without seeming desperate, offer up some truth, sprinkle in a few half-truths, and keep things light.

The only thing I’ve said that was completely, unequivocally true? I’m attracted to her. She is, indeed, beautiful and intelligent—sharp as hell. But she’s nowhere close to melting.

And what’s worse—she keeps bringing that night up. The night everything went to shit.

I don’t want to talk about it. Not because it still hurts. But because I’m tired of it. Tired of remembering how it all unfolded. The mess. The timing. The weight of a thousand bad decisions, most of them Tim’s.

But it has a hold on her. I can see it in her eyes every time she thinks about it—the way they lose light, like a switch has been flipped inside her. That night doesn’t just haunt me, I think.

It makes me wonder if maybe she wasn’t as unaffected as I believed. She definitely feels guilty, but who wouldn’t—sleeping with a taken man.

But this woman isn’t naive. She’s lived through enough that I can’t afford to underestimate her.

She wants control of this conversation—maybe even this entire dynamic.

And she’s trying to understand me. Trying to peel back the layers and figure out why I’m here.

Why I’m pursuing her. Because to her, physical attraction isn’t enough of a reason. And honestly? I don’t blame her.

I haven’t been doing the best job of convincing her otherwise.

So tonight, I tell her more than I planned to. Everything leading up to that night.

How I’m an only child of divorced parents. Grew up in St. Catharines. No siblings, no pets—until I got my own place and adopted Cooper.

How Cooper had cancer. Fought it for six years before I had to put him down last year.

How it happened just months before Tim cheated. (Not once do I tag with you after that sentence.)

She listens quietly, nodding every now and then, her expressions shifting with the story. Her eyes crinkle with warmth when I talk about Cooper, soft with sympathy. But when I mention Tim—and that night—her gaze dims, like someone just turned down the lights inside her.

“So... yeah. That’s me.” I run a hand over my jaw, suddenly aware of how long I’ve been talking.

“Thank you for sharing, Lucian,” she says softly, her voice raspy. I’d been rambling so long, maybe she hadn’t spoken in a while. Or maybe... maybe Cooper’s part got to her. It’s hard to tell.

“What about this past year?” she asks gently. “What have you been up to?”

I freeze.

Because the truth? Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing memorable.

“Last year was... I don’t know. I’ve just been... going through the motions. Pouring everything into Kepler Health. Letting my friends drag me out when they got sick of watching me become a hermit.”

I chuckle, remembering how just two weeks ago Liam basically blackmailed me into taking the guest lecturer spot at Rotman. His bribe? A bottle of Macallan and a full-on ambush at my apartment by the rest of our crew. Didn’t think it’d lead me to her . But maybe the universe likes irony.

“What about you? What’s your story, Rohi?”

The question slips out before I can stop it. But it’s not just to keep the conversation going. I want to know. Really know.

She’s been so guarded—just enough that I notice the shift every time she pulls back. She’s upfront on the surface, but you can tell she chooses her words with care. Like she’s weighing how much of herself is safe to share.

She gives a soft, nervous laugh. “I think we can assign tonight as Getting to Know Lucian . My turn can be some other night?”

The way she says it—tight-lipped, her eyes lowering to her half-empty plate—makes something uneasy twist in my gut.

That wasn’t a deflection. That was avoidance.

And I don’t like it.

I shared everything. Everything leading up to that night, including Cooper, including Tim. The least she could do is offer something back—unless she thinks she’ll accidentally let out the sordid truth of that night.

That she did in fact know that Tim was taken. Fuck! How could she not know? It was right there.

I don’t believe for a second that she didn’t know. Or that she willfully ignored it. All she had to do was turn her head and see the framed photos littered across the hall. Photos of me and Tim—happy, loving, fucking stable.

I school my face quickly and lean back, letting a teasing edge slip into my voice.

“Should’ve known you’re the type who pursues, huh?” I smirk. “Are you asking me out, Ms. Talwar?”

I expect a playful jab. A blush. Maybe a smile.

What I get is a cold, amused snort.

She lifts her eyes, tilts her head slightly, and gives me a look that lands somewhere between amusement and pity.

“Oh wow,” she murmurs.

I blink.

She sips her drink like she’s at a board meeting, then sets the glass down with a soft clink. “Choose one, Lucian. You can either be a charming flirt or a man living in the past.”

My smirk falters, just a fraction.

“I mean,” she continues, gaze steady, “saying that I usually pursue men is essentially rewriting that night as though I chased Tim. Is that what you still think?”

My mouth parts with shock and mild respect. I didn’t even mean what she’s clearly inferring from my statement. But... Jesus, why do I like her calling me out like that?

“I was joking,” I say softly. “You’re taking it out of context.”

She narrows her eyes—as if she trying to figure out whether I was indeed joking.

But then the way she looks at me—like she’s finally, finally figured out the shape of me—makes something gnaw at the edge of my stomach. I can’t blow this so soon.

“Rohi, that was me flirting with you,” I press.

“Okay...” she nods thoughtfully. “But if you’re going to flirt, try not to undercut my dignity while you’re at it. You’re fine on texts but then in person you just... I don’t know. You confuse me.”

Then she picks on her eggplant parmesan. Like I didn’t just accidentally insult her and get called out with surgical precision.

I watch her for a second, unsure what to say.

What can I say?

“I promise you I didn’t mean it like that,” I say truthfully. Because that’s what it is. My truth. I absolutely did not mean what she thinks I did.

She doesn’t even look up. Just shrugs.

And that irritates the fuck out of me. I don’t even have the energy to defend myself. Because she’s partially right. I need to pick a lane. My inner conflict might be unknowingly surfacing as condescension.

And for once, I don’t think I’m holding the reins here.

I signal the waitress for a drink refill, ignoring the bitter taste rising in my throat.

“I feel like I lost you before I even had you,” I mumble but it comes out as a sad declaration.

She looks up then, her gaze scrutinizing my face as if she could peel back to my ugly layers.

Her sigh is heavy, almost defeated and I don’t think I’m feeling any different.

??????

“Thank you for the dinner but...” she reaches for the door handle of my car, her voice quiet, controlled. “I don’t think it’s wise for us to hang out again.”

The words land like a punch to my sternum.

No! I want to scream. But the word dies in my throat.

I move fast, pressing the lock button. A soft click. Not forceful. Just firm. She could still open it and leave but this is a signal that this conversation isn’t over.

“I’m not done, Rohi,” I say, calm but low. “Please. Just... give me two more minutes.”

She stiffens, her hand pausing mid-motion, but she doesn’t reach for the handle again.

Good.

“Whatever ignorant shit I said tonight,” I continue, “I swear it wasn’t meant to hurt you. If it did, I— God , I hate that I even made you feel that way.”

She turns to me slowly, her eyes almost glassy. “Lucian, I... listen—I may have overreacted but... I don’t want to sign up for snide remarks and careless taunts—even if it’s just friendship.”

Fuck. Friendship? I feel like I just got demoted.

I grit my teeth and force myself to stay soft. Stay charming.

“I know.” I reach for her hand again, gentler this time. She lets me, though her fingers stay limp. “And I am sorry. I’ll do better. Be better.”

“I feel like you’re still not over what happened and this...” she waves her other hand between us, “...is some way for you to get past it or something.”

Her words are calm. Measured. But they hit like a slap.

Not over it? The hell I’m not.

I’ve buried that night. For months . But seeing her again unearthed everything—and now I’m the one being accused of dragging it back? She’s the one who keeps bringing it up.

Swallow my anger and exhale slowly.

“I get it,” I rasp. “But I promise you it’s not that. And you’re right. I do have to work on myself. But don’t mistake that for lack of interest on my part.”

I shift closer, just enough that my breath ghosts against her cheek. “Because, sweetheart... whatever this is? It’ll be a hell of a lot more than just friendship .”

I lean in and press the lightest kiss to her cheek. A deliberate move. Soft. Intimate. Not asking for more—but promising it. What I don’t expect is for my lips to have a mind of their own and refuse to end this cheek-kiss.

When I pull back, her eyes are wide. Shocked. Unreadable.

Her brows lift, but she seems flustered. “Umm... okay. One month of friendship. If it doesn’t work—it doesn’t work. You good with that?”

I find that absolutely reasonable. Because one month with this woman—regardless of my plan—should be fun.

I smirk and shrug lightly. “As you wish, Rohi. One month and I’ll be the one doing the pursuing until you’re ready to admit it’s not just friendship .”

She lets out the ghost of a laugh, disbelieving. “You’re impossible.”

“Persistent,” I correct, smiling. “There’s a difference.”

A beat of silence settles between us. It’s less sharp this time. More like a truce. She reaches for the door again, and I let her. This time, she opens it.

“Goodnight, Lucian,” she says softly, her voice still guarded—but not cold like before.

“Goodnight, Rohi,” I echo. “Sleep well.”

She shuts the door behind her. I watch her walk away through the passenger window, the overhead streetlamp catching the faint glimmer of her earrings as she disappears toward her building.

I sit there for a moment longer, then shift into gear and drive back to my condo. Thirty minutes later, I’m in sweatpants, pouring leftover Macallan into a glass. Still brooding over how close I came to blowing it.

Then my phone buzzes.

Her name.

My pulse kicks up as I open the message.

Aarohi: I’ll have your coffee order ready at 8 AM sharp.

I stare at the screen. A slow grin spreads across my face.

She cracked.

Game on.