She nods once, slow. “So no one matters.”
The way she says it, no outrage, no tears, just calm. Accepting. Like she’s filing it away.
I wait for the usual reaction from women. The lecture. The savior look.
She doesn’t give it to me. She kicks off her boots.
My smirk curves automatically. “You gonna hop to the next roof, Beda?”
She steps up onto the ledge instead.
Barefoot. Wind teasing her hair. Arms loose at her sides like she’s weightless, or reckless, or both.
Then she turns—
Towardme.
My chest tightens. Just a twitch. But enough.
She shakes her head. “No,” she says, quiet. “I’m going to fall.”
It takes half a second to register. Then she leans back. Everything in me snaps.
“Ayla!”
I lunge and catch her by the waist, yanking her off the edge so hard we crash to the rooftop. Gravel bites my spine. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got her pinned to me, arms locked like restraints, like I’m the only thing between her and the drop.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The words come out rough, ugly—rage trying to cover panic. I bury my face in her hair without thinking, inhale like I’m checking she’s real. “What the hell were you trying to do?”
She’s shaking. I can feel it.
Shaking with laughter—soft, breathless, insane, into my chest like I just told the funniest joke in the world.
I jerk back, hands gripping her shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”
She lifts her chin.
Her eyes meet mine, steady, shimmering, unapologetic.
“I thought people don’t matter,” she murmurs, that smirk like a razor. “Guess I do.”
My jaw locks.
I want to be furious. I want to shake her. I want to drag her away from this ledge and lock her in my bedroom and never let her near open air again.
But my heart is still hammering like a weapon, and her mouth is carved into the moment.
Because the truth is brutal and simple:
She matters.
And I already told her she’s mine, which means if she falls, she takes something out of me with her.
My jaw clenches so hard I feel the grind in my teeth. She’s still smirking up at me, that razor-edge curve to her lips like she’s won something—won me, maybe, or at least cracked the façade I’ve built thicker than these rooftop walls.
I roll us until her body is under mine is all heat and defiance, pressed into the gravel with my weight holding her down, but she’s not fighting. Not really.
Her laughter fades into shallow breaths, her chest rising against mine, and fuck, I can feel her pulse racing where my hand grips her shoulder.
