I fall into a crouch and scramble to catch the stupid evil in a bottle just before it tumbles down the edge. I huff out an annoyed breath and stand up to face the man who is probably here to kick me out.

Resigned to my fate, I slowly turn around to find someone leaning sideways against a lamppost near the loungers. The harsh glow from the bulb hides most of his face, but going by the fitted suit—hugging all of his heavy muscles—and crossed arms combined with crossed ankles, I'd say he doesn't work here. Unless the owner of this establishment has personally come to throw me onto the streets—I mean, I'd be honoured if that were the case—I don't believe this man has a right to say what I can or cannot do.

"There's no point," he repeats, breaking the silence.

And I cock my head, my eyes searching to his left and right. No one else is in this area other than us. The gala is at the far end, and now I can faintly hear someone talking into a mic.

Is this man speaking to me? How does he know I'm faux-texting my ex and am one step away from flinging my self-respect off the roof?

"In?" I ask with a shaky tone.

"In just standing there." His voice is scratchy. Deep. In a way that say he most likely smokes a lot. A grating of the throat. I would know. Not saying it doesn't sound butterflies-in-my-belly sexy, though.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—" he steps out from under the lamp and walks further to the shrubs, stepping onto the divider preventing the mud from spilling out "—you just standing there serves no point."

Oh.

Oh!

When an asshole stands right at the edge of a wall four hundred feet above the ground, there are very few conclusions to jump to. When said asshole is pacing the wall with a phone in one hand and booze in the other, there's just one any sane person will directly hop onto.

And since we've already accepted the fact that I'm an asshole, I play along.

"Who says I'm here to just stand." I slip my phone into my pants pocket and leave my hand there. The man has to stretch his neck to regard me. I can see him a bit more clearly now. He's sharp. Sharp eyebrows, sharp gaze, sharp trim of his stubble. "Are you here to help me?"

He hums and doesn't say anything. Instead, he turns and hops down from the divider. I scoff. That was short-lived. Even by my standards.

I stare at his broad back as he walks away. Only for him to whip around and, with loud thumps, run towards the wall like he's about to hulk out. He uses the divider as a launch pad and jumps to grab onto the wall edge. I move to help pull him up, but by the time I can, he does it well enough. On his own. With no paint chips on his chest and shoulders.

Safe to say, I'm offended by this turn of events.

He dusts his palms, and when he speaks, there's no trace of breathlessness. Awesome. Now, I'm very offended.

"I saw you from there." He points to the other end. "I saw you climb up the wall," This night keeps getting better and better "go to the edge, and you just stood there. You seemed hesitant."

"Maybe I am waiting for someone."

I'm not sure what he says next because I'm too busy looking. Yes, I'm staring. Unapologetically. Beautiful people are meant to be stared at, and this guy is no exception. It's dark up on the roof, but I like what I can see of him. He has sharp features, sure, but it's not without reason. He's put together. Clean. Regal. Confident. But he has his intrigue. It's present in the long hair only half pulled back, in his scratchy voice, in his smirk that almost qualifies as a sneer. He's quite a bit shorter than me and probably comes up to my ear, but he's still labelled as tall. I'm just taller. He fills out his clothes remarkably. Not too buff, but not on the lean side—my side—either. This is exactly the kind of guy who belongs on the cover of Vogue. Not my sorry ass. Maybe I should drag him down to Rita Dhaave and shove him in her face.

I step closer and notice he's stopped talking. I don't continue. Not yet. I'm still busy. His eyes are on mine. What colour are they? Brown. Light brown maybe. Green? And while I'm clearly busy, seems like I'm not the only one. His brown-light-brown-green eyes run up and down me too. I can't really say if he's returning the favour or if he's genuinely interested.

And we've established that I'm an asshole on most days, but my Pa has raised a polite, kind man, so I drag my shameless gaze away first. I'm already standing on top of a ledge, at least the rest of me needs to convince him I'm fairly normal.

After a moment, I say, "So, now's the time to justify your presence."

"I'm here to give you a countdown."

A what now?

I let out a weak mumble. "What?"

He plucks out his bowtie, and as he fidgets with the top buttons of his shirt, he says, "You see, I have a niece. She's two years old and hates picking up after herself. But the second I start counting down, she's off like Flash and makes sure every last one of her toys is put away."

My mouth turns dry. He just compared me to his two-year-old niece.

I'm sure he senses my apprehension, but the bastard continues anyway. "Countdowns work. The lower the number, the better. Get ready. On three."

I move to the edge, and I can feel him come right behind me. This psycho better not push me.

Again, as though reading my mind, he says, "I'm not about to push you, by the way. I feel learning through self-practice is the best way for retention."

I smile. This dude.

I nod. Let's do this.

"Three." I think I hear a slight tremble, but it could just be the huskiness of his voice.

"Two." I peer down at the tiny speck-like cars moving on the roads.

"One."

My feet slip from underneath me, and I land on my ass, my legs dangling over the edge. I am sure I heard a gasp, but when I face him, all I see is impassiveness. Whatever. I know deep down he's worried about my safety. He wouldn't be up here on a dusty, slippery ledge if he weren't.

I lean back on my palms and watch him as he saunters over to sit beside me. Expensive tux be damned. He, too, leans back, and I can feel the heat of his fingers right beside mine. And then his index finger touches mine. Purposefully. I look down, then up at him. He's not facing me, but he's all relaxed and smiles to the rest of the world. Friendly. The dim light catches the dip in his cheek, and I find another break in his sharpness. The countdown enthusiast has dimples.

My pulse rises, which is unexpected, so I look away.

I try to search for the right words. Pa always says not to blurt the first sentence that pops in my head. I have a bad habit of doing exactly that, but right now, I'm glad he's drilled it into me to think before speaking. Because all that's swimming in my head is what kind of impression I've made.

Jumping off a roof aside, what does he think of me? I know how I think of myself. I'm not a bad guy to look at. My face and frame are easy on the eyes. If the term aggressively average had a picture to accompany it, it would be mine. Average brown hair. Average brown eyes. Average brown skin tone. Although, it's gotten darker after coming to Australia. I look mostly unassuming. Aloof pretty much all the time. Most white people say all brown guys look the same. I'm exactly the brown guy they refer to when they say that. What I've got going is my height. I'm taller than average in my country, but if I head to someplace else, maybe in Europe, you're not about to find anyone sprinting to get to me.

I'm quite unremarkable looks-wise. In cricket, too. Up until recently, at least.

"What's your name?" he asks. The more he talks, the more I find myself liking his voice. Strong. Confident. And he doesn't care that it borders on grating. Fuck. He can use that voice to speak dirty things to me all night. If he's into it. It's hard to tell what he's thinking behind all that impassiveness, especially when he's not looking at me.

"Why?" I answer.

He shrugs. "Call it curiosity. I want to find out if your name is as daring as the rest of you." He faces me, and I see it. The slight push of interest peeking through the cracks.

"Arya." I don't mind telling him my name. I know he doesn't recognise me. If that accent is anything to go by, I'd say he's American. And if that slow dragging at the end of his words is any indication, I'd further narrow it down to the West Coast.

A small smile tilts his lips. Those dimples pop out again.

"What's the verdict?" I ask, strangely holding my breath in anticipation.

"It suits you perfectly."

Pride swarms my chest, and really it's stupid. I didn't choose that name. Most of the time, people don't even get the pronunciation right.

"Thanks," I say and raise my eyebrows.

"Dan." He angles his hand towards me, and we shake. His hands are mostly smooth apart from the callouses at the top of his palms, right below his fingers. A stark contrast to my roughness.

When I pull back, his hand still sticks out, and he looks at me expectantly. Maybe he wants to cop a better feel? I slowly shake his hand again, but then his eyebrows scrunch up in a confused manner. Which in turn makes me confused.

Then, with his hand still in mine, he points to the side. I follow his finger and almost facepalm but then realise my hand is occupied.

"Right," I say and hand the bottle of Gin to him.

He takes a long, super long sip and doesn't make any move to show how acidic tasting it is. He can't possibly like the taste. For my ego's sake, I tell myself he's not emoting because he's being polite.

"So, Arya," he says, licking his lips, and other than appreciating that little movement, I also appreciate how he says my name. Properly. "What brings you up here?"

I glance at the large gap between my feet and the ground below. "Needed some air. Didn't expect I'd need help in that area, but it is appreciated."

He tucks his chin to his chest, almost bashfully. "I didn't really think you were going to jump," he says, playing with the bottle label. "But I did panic when I saw you pacing back and forth. You could've slipped."

I bark out a laugh. "The only time I could've slipped was when you caught me off guard."

A blush covers his cheeks in pink. Fuuuck. He's blushing. Why's that so adorable?

"My appreciation still stands, by the way," I say. "You never know what ideas I might've gotten. I'm known for my daring spirit."

A soft, almost flirty smile engulfs his entire face, blunting his sharpness. "So, you do this often? Climb up ledges on roofs and give others a heart attack?"

Now that the initial shyness is gone, we've reached a quiet confidence that shows he's a man comfortable in his own skin. Confidence I value a lot since it mostly extends to other areas.

"Yes." I sit up straighter and bring my legs up to cross them. I angle my body slightly towards him, leaving my knee over the edge. His eyes dart towards that, and if I'm giving him another heart attack, he doesn't mention it. "Adulting has made me realise having my head up in the clouds is better than having it attached."

"Did it also make you realise crashing a private party warrants consequences?"

"I guess I'm just going to have to trust you not to rat me out."

He chuckles. It's a deep-throated rumble that doesn't even feel like it's coming from his mouth. "I'll just add that to the favour tally."

"Favour tally?"

"Yeah. One for saving your life, and now this."

I laugh. "Saving my life?"

"You said it yourself. If I didn't intervene, who knows what ideas you might've ended up with."

Now that you mention it, I'm coming up with way too many ideas. I turn front and drop my legs once more. "Thank you. You sure they're not going to miss you back there?"

He hums and takes another swig. "We've got time."

"Oh yeah? How long? A man like you goes missing, I'm pretty sure someone's bound to notice." Yes, I'm flirting with a total stranger four hundred feet above ground and putting my barely there career at very high risk. Sue me.

He scoffs, but his dimples are out. "You're smooth."

"I try."

"And straightforward."

"Is that bad?"

"Yes." Seems like I'm not the only one who is. "But I like it."

And the fluttery feeling is back. My toes curl in my shoes, and warmth spreads throughout my body. I can't believe I'm giddy because some dude said he likes me.

"Why do you think it's bad?" he asks after a while.

I shrug one shoulder. "No one likes being told their flaws right to their face."

He nods like what I said is acceptable. "I know what you mean."

"How so?"

He quirks a brow. Whatever cracks I had seen prior are slowly repairing themselves. The impassiveness makes a return. "Asking a lot of questions. It's starting to feel like you're trying to get to know me."

The words spill from my mouth before I can stop them. "Maybe I am."

"I don't do that," he says it like its final.

So, of course, I push it. "You saved my life, it's only fitting I get to know who my knight in shining armour is."

He side-eyes me. I just grin.

"Not really," he says. "But okay, I'll allow it. Besides, it's a two-way street. Even I want to know the distressed damsel I've saved."

"I'm down. Shoot your shot, Sir Dan."

This has trouble written all over it, but how much worse can it get? I'm sitting on a ledge and am about to air out my entire life to a stranger right when the public is beginning to get interested in me. The problem here is he's interesting too, and for one night, just one fucking night, I don't want to slap on a smile and glide through my uneasiness.

"Nothing?" I ask, my hands turn sweaty and have a slight tremble to them. I stuff them under my thighs.

"You're an impatient one. Give me a sec. I'm eliminating all the boring shit."

"The boring shit?"

"Yeah. Like age, hometown, dreams, all that. I want the dirt."

I look at him with mock horror. "Should I be scared?"

"Maybe. You asked for it."

"Yep, I'm afraid."

"Backing out already?"

"Approaching with caution," I say. "And mentally burying all the bodies while I'm at it."

"A lot to hide?"

"Enough that it's getting exhausting."

"Gives me all the more reason to dig deeper."

"Surprise me," I say, welcoming him into my lair of despair with open arms.

And he...

doesn't deliver.

"What do you do for a living?"

I stare at him for a long long time, trying to gauge if he's joking. That was a whole lot of build-up for something so mundane.

My lips twitch. "And here I thought my knight would be more fiery." I wiggle my fingers in his direction.

"Already something to hide, huh?" he says plainly.

"If I don't answer, will you think I do something super cool? Like a secret agent or spy." I'm not even going to mention cricket. Nuh-uh. Not happening.

"Maybe. Or I'll just jump to jobless incel."

I snort and spit out the first thing that pops into my head. "Panda hugger"

He blinks. I try to imitate his impassiveness.

"Better than a spy, that's for sure," he says.

"Fulfilling. I'll tell you that much. And what about you?"

"Porn star," he says it without missing a beat.

And there goes my imitation of him as I stare with my jaw hanging wide. I can't say if he's returning the favour of pretend occupations or if he actually is one. If he is, then I'll have to...

"What's your name?"

"Dan."

"No. What's your—"

"Locky Sins. You know, since I have..." He gestures to his silky as sin locks.

Alright, so pretend occupations it is.

"Okay, my turn," I say, and I'm about to ask my question when he interrupts.

"You already had your turn. Twice."

"Hey! Those don't count."

"Because I'm nice, I'll let you go this time. Consider this another notch on the favour tally."

"How altruistic." I hesitate for a moment. "Any hidden talents?"

"Yes."

"Which are?"

"And that's four questions in total."

"I'll blow you later, just answer."

If he's shocked by my curtness, he doesn't show it. "I play the violin."

I raise my brows. "Really?"

"You look surprised."

"Not surprised. Are you good?"

"A little bit."

I squint. "Didn't peg you to be modest."

"It is what it is."

"I don't know you well enough to know if you're telling the truth." For the previous question, he lied. But then again, so did I.

"Guess you don't have a choice," he says off-handedly.

"Or you could prove it to me."

"Sure. Get me a violin."

I grin. "One day. One day you're going to play for me." I don't know why I say it. And that too in such a determined manner. Once we're off this roof, I'm in no way going to contact him ever again.

"We'll see." He takes another sip of the gin. "My turn. What's your best quality?"

I frown. Mostly because I don't have an answer. And partially because though it's my best, people don't really appreciate it. "I'm honest."

He doesn't bring up the fact that we pretty much started on a very unhonest route.

"What's your worst quality?" I ask.

Dan doesn't even take a second to think. "I'm honest." And takes a long sip from that bottle of evil after. His words are slightly slurring, and the responsible part of me wants to snatch the bottle, but the curious part tells me to let him drink. Alcohol dissolves the brain-to-mouth filter, and I'm dying to know more about this man.

"Illegal thing that definitely would've gotten you in prison?" he asks.

I have to rack my brain for this. For all my stupidity, I don't really play around. Pa will legit disown me if I end up in prison. But first in line will be Gramps. Problem is he won't disown me, he'll straight up shoot me point blank with the rifle that's currently dismantled in his closet.

"Fake ID," I finally answer. It's not like I even used it. I just had it and was too chicken to present it to anyone. By the time I mustered up the courage, I turned twenty-one.

"Oh, such a horrifying criminal," he teases.

"Heh, when you have a life like mine, your very existence feels like a crime." I don't let him wonder too much about what I said. "Best memory?"

He tips his head back in thought and doesn't answer for quite some time.

"This one summer when we were in primary, my brother and I wanted to bake a cake for Mom's birthday. But it was Sunday, and she was home, so we needed to get a little creative. We went to our neighbour's place, she's a damn good baker and had a super soft spot for Kian." He gets this dreamy look in his eyes like he's reliving some good times. "She helped us bake a huge two-tier cake. It was the most amazing thing ever, complete with butter pecan frosting and blueberries. Mom loves blueberries. We had to carry the cake just three houses down. Literally, three. We couldn't manage that and dropped it in our driveway. I blamed him, he blamed me. Next thing we know, it turns into a full-fledged cake fight. Our older sister came to yell at us, but Kian launched a fistful of frosting right into her hair, and so the competition began. Our other brother joined in too for the sake of it. Best time ever."

"So your best memory is wasting someone else's resources?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Mom made the four of us clean the entire driveway and made the twins wash the car and mow the lawn for extra measure. And paid our neighbour for her troubles. The twins bought her a cake later, though, so we still got our butter pecan for the night."

"Sounds like the perfect birthday."

"It was. Okay, you've asked two back-to-back questions. My turn now."

"Go ahead."

"Biggest fear," he asks.

"Waking up one day and finding out all my loved ones are gone." I'm not too far off from that, actually. It's just a matter of time before it becomes reality.

"Why are you afraid of that?"

My gaze snaps to his, and I can see he's genuinely curious. "Why wouldn't I be? Who would want to spend the rest of their life unloved?"

"Not the rest of your life. You just have to open your heart to more love. Seven point five billion people, there's a lot of love left in this world." There's no mirth in his words. He's serious.

I want to tell him I have. I opened my heart, got it torn apart more than a couple of times, and now I'm tired. But that means veering into personal territory, and I'm not going down that route.

So, to change direction, "Biggest turn-on?"

He smiles that adult smile like he knows what I am up to. "I like it when I'm surprised. When people aren't quite what they seem." His voice goes deeper, drops an octave, and even the rustling of the wind quietens. My nerve endings are on high alert.

I'm tempted to ask if I've surprised him, but I hold off.

"Weirdest place you've had sex?" he challenges.

I hold in a laugh which he notices.

"Really? That scandalous?"

"Not scandalous. Just..."

"You're holding out on me, Arya."

And that perfect pronunciation lets my hesitation off the leash. "In a security control room."

A grin takes over his face. "And here I was, having high expectations."

"Sorry for not meeting your level, sir. Now, spill, what's yours?"

"Parking lot."

I motion for him to continue.

"I had sex in a parking lot, that's it."

I fan myself. "Ugh. So hot. Who knew porn stars were this good at narrating porn too?"

He laughs again, and a satisfaction situates itself deep in my bones. He doesn't seem the type to laugh a lot, but I've managed to do it multiple times so far.

"I'm glad I saved your life, Arya," he says.

I blankly wave at him to stop. "Me on a ledge with alcohol to share. Of course, you're glad. Trust me, when the sun comes up, your regrets will too. I'll be the last thing on your mind."

"You said you were honest."

"I am."

"Right now, you aren't."

His smile shifts, and it turns into something more... More inviting. I won't sit here and say it doesn't feel good. I feel myself. Me and my silly old narcissism feel nice. Just for this one fleeting moment, I actually feel without forcing myself.

"I think it's your turn," he says.

I stare at him, trying to find more stuff to question him on.

"Out of questions already?" he sneers. "I'm pretty sure that means I win."

"Whoa, slow down, cowboy. It's not a competition."

"Spoken like a true loser."

Now that gets on my nerves. Wind sweeps over us, and I use the momentary distraction while he fixes his hair to move closer. I lean forward, and I can see that his eyes are a rich brown. Easy to gaze into and forget the depths of. His warmth engulfs me, and I'm not sure backing away will be easy anymore.

"Tell me something," I say, my face so close to his I just need a nudge to kiss him.

"What?"

"Something surprising. You said you like to be surprised." My hand finds his. "So surprise me."

I don't meet his eyes. I'm too busy following his lips as they mouth the words, "I..."

I am going to kiss you. I'm going to take you back to my place. I'm going to fuck you.

"Am not going to sleep with you."

Since my ideas of a good night are clearly much better than his, my brain takes a while to catch up.

When it does, I move away so fast one would think he'd burnt me.

He doesn't meet my stare, instead, he just squirms under it.

"Taken?" I ask because clearly my ego is in need of further bruising.

"No."

"Straight then?"

"No."

"So, just not your type," I conclude, which is fine. Really. Though I could've sworn I saw something akin to interest there.

He looks at me then. No, he's not looking, he's searching. For something I'm pretty sure I don't have. And not in the I'm sorry I rejected you way. No, he wants something. He stares at me as though he's expecting me to say the right words to make me rectify the situation.

When he doesn't find what he's searching for, he sighs. "I—"

"Hey! Mate. You're not supposed to be here."

We both turn to find a scowling security guard shining his torch right into Dan's face. The walkie-talkie spits out a noisy cackle, and he moves the torch away.

Dan drops the hand shielding his face, and I half expect him to finish his sentence, but he simply gets to his feet and grabs the gin he's been nursing. Gripping the edge of the wall with one hand, he slowly climbs down.

I don't have his patience, so I jump, trampling a shrub in the process.

"Sorry," I tell the guard. "Didn't realise it was so late."

The guard, seeing that both of us are as harmless as hamsters, leaves without giving us too much shit.

I head for the door, and Dan follows me, bumping into my back when I stop right in front of it.

"Fuck, sorry," he mumbles.

I turn around to say a final goodbye since there's not much left to talk about but stop short when I see his disappointed face. What is he so bummed about? If I'm not his type, I'm not his type. It's alright. I'm a big boy, I can handle myself. It's a shame, but like he said, it is what it is.

"Well, good night then." I slap his shoulder, restraining myself from squeezing it and feeling it up better. "Thanks for keeping me company, Dan."

"I'll add it to the favours tally." He manages a smile but doesn't meet my eyes when he mutters, "Good night, Arya."

"It was nice meeting you, Dan," I say, prolonging the inevitable. I really should stop and leave this nice guy alone. I can promise he won't ever hear from me again and for both our sakes, of me too.

But I can't help it.

He's just so damn likeable.

Even after he rejected me.

Fucking hell.

"Likewise." He nods.

I nod.

And he leaves for the party-gala thing he was supposed to be at all along, and I do what I should've done in the first place.

I get the fuck out of here.