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She smells like warmth, like sugar left too long over heat. It lingers when she shifts and I clench my fists tight, stopping short at touching her.
My gaze flickers over the edge, measuring the distance and slow current.
“You wouldn’t die.” I shrug. “Not from here. Probably break something. Knock the air out of yourself, maybe hit the water wrong and black out.” I try to stay calm, the visions filling my head with every word I speak and hating myself for it.
“I wasn’t going to jump.”
“You’ll end up with really bad stitches…”
“I said I wasn’t going to jump, you wanker.”
“…and a few broken bones…”
“Are you even listening?”
“…and regret doing it cause you’ll still be alive…”
“Oh my god! Shut up.”
“…and have to bear the pain—”
Her hand covers my mouth, and every thought derails.
Fuck, she’s real.
My eyes almost roll to the back of my head as her breasts presses against my ribs as she rises slightly on her toes, fingers curling into my hoodie for balance.
The top of her head barely reaches my chest and I fight the urge to pull her closer.
“Stop. Talking.” She hisses, her eyes squints and now that she’s up close, I notice the redness around them.
She was crying.
The thought makes my jaw tighten. I get hit by a sudden possessiveness, the want to protect her from everything, it’s so startling that I jerk back.
She scrunches her face, pulling her hand away from my mouth and I don’t fight the smirk that breaks through.
“Tall arsehole.” Cursing as she gently rubs her neck and I tilt my head at the sudden discomfort she portrays and without a second thought, I start moving.
I park the bike a few steps from the railing, noticing her eyes on me with keen interest and nod towards it. “Sit.”
She hesitates, shrugs adorably and settles on it sideways while facing me.
Better.
I drop onto the pavement, my back resting against the railings. The height between us evening out as she looks down on me and if she notices the subtle dominance she holds over me, she doesn’t say anything.
But I notice the slight twitch of her lips that she fails to hide anyway.
“What are you doing here this late at night?” I keep my tone deliberately flat, not wanting to sound like I am prying.
I totally am.
I want to know her name, who she is, where she comes from, why she was crying, who hurt her, what she likes, what she avoids, what makes her smile.
Fuck, I am spiralling.
“I could ask you the same thing.” She narrows her eyes, her gaze trailing downward—pausing at my mouth, my shoulders, my chest—before snapping back up, almost as if she caught herself.
