His midnight black hair, a little longer on the top and shorter on the sides, is disheveled and wet from the falling snow. He has gorgeous eyelashes framing his brown eyes as if he’s wearing eyeliner, and his clean-shaven jaw is so sharp—it feels like one could cut a finger by simply touching it. His cheeks are sunken. Tattoos cover the visible part of his neck, and I wonder how far down they go.
Why am I thinking that?Mentally shaking my head, I continue observing him.
Light wrinkles on the sides of his eyes tell me he likes to laugh, which is a far cry from his facial expression right now. He has a five-o-clock shadow and perfect lips, the bottom one a little fuller. His skin is clean of any blemishes, his cheeks a little pink from the biting cold.
I’d place him somewhere in his early thirties if I had to guess.
I look back up and find him pressing his lips together in a tight, angry line, his brow raised in question.
“As far as I’ve heard, Maine is still a free state, and I can be anywhere I want as long as I don’t break any laws.” I narrow my eyes at him.
“Be anywhere but here.” His eyes narrow back.
“Why?” I squint even more.
“Because I was here first.” His nostrils flare as he replies like a stubborn child.
I snort at his ridiculous answer and rest my elbows against the rails, mimicking his previous stance. I feel a hot glare drilling a hole into the side of my face, until eventually he sighs and turns to look at the river too.
“There are always reasons to not do it, you know,” I say after a long stretch of silence.
“Did I ask for your opinion?” His tone is purposely rude, and the slightest hint of a British accent envelopes me in a warm hug—I’ve always been a sucker for accents.
“No. But you’re still getting it.” I shrug in the darkness, not looking at him.
He sighs tiredly, his voice void of any emotion. “I never said I wanted to jump.”
“You never said you didn’t.”
He doesn’t contradict or try to convince me otherwise and keeps looking ahead. I turn toward him, shamelessly staring at the side of his face. It’s a work of art. All this anger and pain and longing…I can see all of it. He doesn’t even try to hide it. How is he living like this? How did he end up here, on this bridge? His face is an open cry for help, hiding so much melancholy and tiredness—people would surely see his need for them.
They would, right?
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He shoots me an unhappy glare.
“I haven’t seen you around here,” I reply and pull my hat down over my ears before they freeze off.
“I’m visiting a friend.” He grinds his molars, and I watch how his jaw works as he probably grinds them into dust.
“Is this friend a she?”
“Why do you care?” That draws his attention, and he turns to me, a lopsided smile finally showing on his face. I get the feeling this facade is something he knows how to utilize.
“I don’t.” I shrug—a half-truth. “But I want to know what pushed you to come here.”
“I’m not planning to jump,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Alright,” I agree too easily, and he groans.
“No, my friend is not ashe,” he says drowsily, undoubtedly hoping the nuisance (me) will disappear if he succumbs to my demands. “And I’m here because I need some time to clear my head. I’m fine; your conscience is clear. You can go now,” he dismisses me and stares ahead again.
I let out a loud growl—inwardly. “Of course you do. Naked on a bridge at night while it’s snowing.”
“Don’t throw things like that in the air. If I was naked, sweetheart, you’d never forget it. I can assure you I’m very much dressed.” The arrogant notes in his voice clearly indicate that he’s averted from the path I found him on. For now.
“It’s cold,” I say, ignoring him. “You’ll get pneumonia.”
He snorts, shaking away the snowflakes from his sleeve, and mumbles under his breath, “That’d be too easy.”
