Page 24 of Glass Jawed
Maybe not with the kind of wholehearted abandon that I’d want—there’s still too much hurt wrapped around us like old, barbed wire. But physically? Yes. Absolutely. He’s distractingly gorgeous, with light brown hair that always looks just shy of messy, and that stubble—God—it makes me want to drag my nails across his jaw just to feel it.
But that doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t rewrite the things he said.
“Lucian...” I sigh, fingers tightening slightly around my glass. “There’s... there’s a lot of hurt from that night. And I don’t think you’ve ever really acknowledged it. Yes, you were heartbroken. But I was—”
“Can we just... not talk about it?” he interrupts, too fast. “Start fresh?”
I blink. He’s not even trying to hide it—how much he wants to skip past it all. I get that it’s painful. Maybe even shameful. But it was painful for me too. And he’s never once asked what it was like for me. Never once looked at it through a different lens.
Something in my face must shift, because he notices. He swallows hard, the tension rippling through his throat before he clears it with a quiet, rough sound.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low now. “Really. I know what I just did. I know you carry that night around... and it must’ve been awful. Being—” he hesitates, like he’s forcing himself to say it, “—used. For lack of a better word.”
My breath catches. Just a little.
So... he does get it. At least partially.
And for once, he isn’t dressing it up. No charm. No dodge. Just truth.
And that’s a start. I think.
But I can’t seem to find the will to respond. Because now my brain—traitorous as ever—is busy dredging up the images and words from that night. Words flung at me with venom. From the same voice that, only moments ago, called me beautiful.
The silence that stretches between us isn’t dramatic or loud. It’s just... uncomfortable. Muted. Like we’re walking on thin ice and both of us know it’s about to crack.
Even when the waiter returns to take our order, I find my voice quieter than usual, a little too polite. He notices. Of course he notices.
And then, while the waiter walks away, I see him lean back and type something into his phone—thumbs moving fast, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
Great.
This non-date date is officially swerving toward disaster.
Tunn-tunn!
Shit.
My heart rate kicks up like it’s trying to outpace the awkwardness. He just texted me. While sittingright here.
I glance down at my screen.
Lucian: Is it too soon to admit I’ve already Googled how to make eggplant parmesan? Just in case you like it enough to let me cook it for you someday.
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips.
Goddammit.
The scent of basil and garlic hits first. My plate of eggplant Parmesan is placed in front of me, while he’s beaming at his ravioli. Across the table, Lucian watches me as he picks up his wine glass.
“Are you a vegetarian, by the way?” he asks lightly, nodding at my plate.
I shake my head. “Not really. Just wanted to try something new.”
He grins. “So you’re adventurous with food. Noted.”
I stab a piece of eggplant and nod, half-smiling.Adventurousis not the word I’d use to describe my relationship with food. But apparently this night is not about me or my feelings.
The first few bites are good, I think. But I’m barely tasting it. Lucian’s watching me too closely—like he’s studying my reactions, my dwindling attention.
