Page 112 of Glass Jawed
My eyes widen instinctively, darting toward Ishika. She’s now watching me like a hawk, a triumphant smirk on her lips. Vikram’s oblivious beside her.
I turn back to Advik. Our mouths are maybe an inch apart. Maybe less.
“That’s true,” I whisper. “But... I’m also just coming out of a relationship.”
He nods, slow and deliberate, his nose brushing against mine. “And you’re also not here to stay.” A pause. “So does that meanthis—” his hand travels higher, brushing the inside of my thigh “—is off the table?”
Fucking hell.
My breathing hitches.
“Maybe when I’m sober,” I murmur, my voice thinner than I’d like. “Ish.”
He chuckles at that. “Ish.”
Then, so softly it’s almost not there, he kisses the corner of my mouth.
A whisper of touch.
I wait.
Wait for the heat to bloom. For the ache. Thepull. The rush of lust and adrenaline that’s supposed to come with moments like this.
It doesn’t.
All that comes isguilt.
A quiet, aching weight in my chest.
And even though I tell myself I shouldn’t feel this way—that I don’t owe Lucian anything—I can’t help it.
I do.
And Ihatethat I do.
An hour later we’re all outside. The warm night wraps around us, sticky with the hum of traffic and the chatter of late-night crowds.
Connaught Place never really sleeps. Not until at least 3 am. Street vendors still peddlechaatand knockoff sunglasses, rickshaw bells ring somewhere in the background, and the neon shop signs blink with all the confidence of a city that doesn’t give adamnif you’re heartbroken.
We’re all laughing, even Vikram’s other friends—who are halfway into some off-key rendition of a random Hindi song, as we cross the street toward the parking lot.
Ishika sways dramatically beside Vikram, clearly enjoying her role as the “designated driver.”
“Ishi,” I mutter, laughing. “You hadwater.”
She flails her arms like a dancer mid-tragedy. “Emotions can be intoxicating.”
I’m about to fire back when I feel a hand wrap around my wrist and gently pull me away from the group.
Advik.
He turns me into him, arms slipping around my waist like they’ve always belonged there. “Before you head back,” he murmurs, “let me say this while I still have nerve and alcohol in my system.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, this should be good.”
He grins—lazy, smug. “You look beautiful tonight. Youalwaysdo. And I don’t just mean aesthetically. You’re... you.”
My chest tightens. He says it like it’s an entire sentence.
