Page 41 of Glass Jawed
A black-weave leather bracelet with Cooper engraved into the side. Hanging from it, a small metal charm—a circle etched with a paw print.Hispaw print.
I blink.
She’s saying something—I think explaining where she got it, how it’s just a little thing she saw online, how she thought maybe I could wear it on bad days—but I can’t hear her.
Because in my head, I’m not in my kitchen anymore.
I’m curled on a threadbare couch in my old apartment. Cooper is asleep on my chest, his little breaths warm and steady. His nose tucked under my jaw.
I used to joke he could smell my sadness before I even spoke.
And now...
This beautiful woman—this woman I had pegged as a fucking target just weeks ago—has given me a way to carry him again.
I have an urn.
I have a shrine.
But this—this feels alive.
Like I could walk out the door and take himwith me.
Like a tether that hadn’t been cut after all.
I’m still staring when I finally feel her fingers brush my wrist, tentative. “Lucian?”
I look up. Her eyes are wide, uncertain.
And I realize I’ve been completely silent. I swallow, but it’s hard. My throat is too tight.
“This is...” I shake my head, unable to finish the sentence. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know.” She offers a small smile. “But I wanted to.”
She wanted to.
Fuck.
She’s killing me.
I mumble a chokedthank youand slide the bracelet on, eyes locked on hers.
And something shifts in my chest.
Something constant. And I’m not sure if it’s the bracelet orher.
We end up on the couch after dinner.
Not surprising. That seems to be our thing. Shit. I have athingwith her now.
I’ve got one arm lazily flung over the backrest behind her, legs stretched out, a blanket pooled around our feet. Her socks have strawberries on them. Who the hell wears strawberry socks and still manages to make my dick twitch?
The Office plays on the screen—Season 3, the ridiculous “Survivor Man” episode where Michael drags himself into the woods with a knife and duct tape trying to prove he can handle the wild.
We’re both laughing, leaning into each other. Her head keeps bumping my shoulder every time she lets out one of those quiet snort-giggles. Her fingers brush against my thigh every now and then.
“You’re definitely a Dwight,” I say, nudging her side. “Strategic. Ruthless. Secret weapons hidden in the walls.”
