Page 33 of Glass Jawed
Just as we reach the glass doors, she fumbles around in her purse for her key fob. I wait while she finds it, her brows furrowed in tipsy concentration.
Once we’re inside, she waves at the concierge and leads me toward the elevators, her steps a little uneven in those heels.
I can’t figure her out.
She was all laughter and banter at the bar—spiky in that way she gets when she’s playful and half-challenging me. But ever since the alcohol really hit, she’s been quiet. Withdrawn. Not cold, just... somewhere far off.
I don’t dislike it. I’m not irritated. If anything, I’m worried. It feels like she’s shutting down, going somewhere in her head that doesn’t include me.
Or maybe this is just how she is when drunk.
When we reach her floor, she unlocks her unit with a shaky hand and turns to look at me. There’s a flicker of hesitation in her expression.
“Are you... do you wanna... why...”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. She’s flustered, and the sight of it is far too endearing for its own good.
“I just wanted to make sure you were safely deposited into your home,” I say.
She nods, then steps aside to let me in. “My flatmate Charlotte comes home later. Her shift ends at 3 am. So... you can... I don’t know. Want some water?”
I shake my head. “I’m good. But can I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah, of course.” She points toward the hallway. “That door.”
Then she practically disappears down the other end—retreating to what I assume is her bedroom.
I take a piss and lean over the sink to wash my hands, staring at the water swirling down the drain.
Every time we hang out, I think less about Tim. Less about that damn night. Less about the betrayal.
And more abouther.
Aarohi isn’t some faceless mistake anymore. She’s not just the woman Tim cheated with. She’s... taken shape. She’s complicated. Bright. A little too sharp. And way too alluring.
I close my eyes and exhale.
Her laugh, her weird obsession with iced oat lattes, that goddamn little frown she gets when she’s concentrating—these things have started tattooing themselves onto my memory. Not the photo frames. Not the screaming. Not Tim’s voice.
And her lips.Fuck.
Even painted in that dark wine shade tonight, they looked like they could ruin a man. I wanted to drown in them. Bite them. Swallow whatever sound she made when I did.
If I stay here any longer, I’ll do something I won’t be able to take back.
I dry my hands and push the bathroom door open.
She’s back in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, sipping water from a mug that saysWorld’s Best Boss.Of course she likesThe Office. That tracks.
But my steps falter.
She’s changed. Into pale blue sleep shorts and a loose white tee that hangs just off her shoulder. Her face is bare, no makeup. Hair messy and falling softly down her back.
And those lips?
Still wine-colored.
That’s not lipstick. That’s justher.
