Chapter 4: The Rooftop Confession
The roof was a disaster.
Not the kind of disaster that made the news or required a team of professionals with harnesses and liability insurance. The kind that started with a small stain on the ceiling of the upstairs hallway and ended with Marcus standing on a ladder, poking at a soft spot with a screwdriver, and saying, "Oh. Oh, that's not good."
Ethan had wanted to call a roofer. Jade had wanted to call a roofer. Priya had already gotten three quotes, and all of them were north of eight thousand dollars.
But Marcus, in his infinite wisdom, had convinced them that a leaky roof was a simple fix. "It's just flashing," he'd said. "And some shingles. We can do this ourselves. I watched a YouTube video."
That was four hours ago.
Now, Marcus and Priya were on the roof, the afternoon sun beating down on their backs, and the simple fix had turned into a full-scale excavation. The flashing was rusted through. The shingles were crumbling. And underneath all of it, the decking was soft as wet cardboard.
"We need to replace the whole section," Priya said, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Maybe more."
"We don't have the budget for the whole section."
"Then we don't have a roof."
Marcus sat back on his heels, surveying the damage. He was covered in tar and dust, his flannel shirt tied around his waist, his undershirt clinging to his chest. He looked like he'd been through a war.
"Okay," he said. "New plan. We patch what we can, we cover it with tar paper, and we pray it doesn't rain until we can afford to do it right."
"That's not a plan. That's a wish."
"It's a plan with hope."
Priya stared at him. Then she laughed—a short, sharp sound that surprised them both.
"You're an idiot," she said.
"I know."
"A charming idiot."
"Also true."
She shook her head and went back to work, prying up the damaged shingles with a pry bar. Marcus watched her for a moment, the way her muscles moved under her tank top, the way she attacked the roof like it had personally offended her. Then he went back to work too.
They worked in silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of tools and the distant hum of traffic. The sun inched across the sky, and the heat started to fade, replaced by the cool breath of evening.
Marcus was the first to break.
"I'm going to miss this," he said.
Priya looked up. "Miss what? Roofing?"
"All of it. The chaos. The late nights. The way Ethan gets that look on his face when he's about to make a terrible decision." He shrugged. "He's my best friend. I don't know what I'm going to do without him."
"You're not losing him. He's just moving across town."
"It's not the same." Marcus set down his hammer and sat back, staring at the horizon. "He's got Jade now. He's got this house. He's got a whole life that doesn't include me."
"That's not true."
"It is true. And it should be true. That's what growing up looks like." He picked at a loose piece of tar paper. "I just didn't think it would happen so fast."
Priya was quiet for a moment. Then she sat down next to him, her legs dangling over the edge of the roof.
"I get it," she said. "I've been avoiding someone too."
"Who?"
"My climbing partner. Raj." She pulled a face. "He's been asking me to do this route with him for weeks. A big wall. Multi-pitch. Overnight. The kind of climb that requires trust."
"And you don't trust him?"
"I don't trust myself." She looked at her hands. "I've been hurt before. Not physically—well, physically too, but that's part of climbing. I mean... emotionally. I let someone in, and they left. And I swore I wouldn't do it again."
"So you're running."
"I'm not running. I'm... carefully not participating."
Marcus laughed. "That's the most Priya thing I've ever heard."
"Shut up."
"No, I mean it. You're so controlled. You've got spreadsheets for everything. Schedules. Plans. You don't let anything happen unless you've already accounted for it."
"And you don't plan anything. You just... swing your sledgehammer and hope for the best."
"Hey, that's a valid life strategy."
"It's a terrible life strategy."
"I know." He grinned. "But it's never boring."
Priya shook her head. But she was smiling.
The whiskey appeared a few minutes later—Marcus had stashed a bottle in his backpack, "for emergencies." They passed it back and forth, the burn of it cutting through the exhaustion, and the conversation drifted from one thing to another.
Marcus talked about his music. How he'd been writing songs for years, but he'd never had the courage to play them for anyone. How he was terrified that he'd wake up one day and realize he'd wasted his whole life chasing something that was never going to happen.
Priya talked about her family. How her parents had wanted her to be a doctor, a lawyer, something respectable. How she'd disappointed them by going into real estate. How she'd spent her whole life trying to prove she was good enough, and how exhausting it was.
"You're good enough," Marcus said.
"You don't know that."
"I know you negotiated a roof repair down by two grand. That's not nothing."
"It's a roof. Not a life."
"It's a start."
She looked at him. Really looked at him. And something shifted in her expression.
"Why are you being nice to me?" she asked.
"I'm always nice."
"No, you're not. You're loud. And obnoxious. And you flirt with everyone."
"I don't flirt with everyone."
"You flirted with the cashier at the hardware store. And the mail carrier. And that dog walker who passed by yesterday."
"The dog walker was cute."
"She was seventy."
"Age is just a number."
Priya laughed. "You're impossible."
"I know." He took a swig of whiskey and handed her the bottle. "But you're still here."
She was. She was still here, sitting on a roof with a man she'd known for three weeks, drinking warm whiskey and feeling something she hadn't felt in a long time.
"I'm scared," she said.
"Of what?"
"Of this. Of you. Of whatever this is." She gestured between them. "I don't do this. I don't... feel things. Not like this."
"Me neither."
"You're a liar."
"I'm not." Marcus set the bottle down and turned to face her. "I'm loud and obnoxious because it's easier. If I'm the clown, no one expects me to be serious. No one expects me to be vulnerable. No one expects me to get hurt."
Priya stared at him. The mask had slipped. Underneath the jokes and the flirting and the chaos, there was something else. Something raw.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard," she said.
"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "It's my life."
She reached out and touched his face. Her fingers were rough from the work, callused in places, and he leaned into her touch like a man starved for contact.
"I'm tired of being careful," she said.
"Then don't be."
She kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was the kind of kiss that happened when two people had been circling each other for weeks, snapping and snarling and pretending they didn't feel anything. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling hard, and he groaned against her mouth.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Finally."
"Shut up."
She pushed him back onto the tar paper, straddling his hips, her knees pressing into the cracked surface. He grabbed her ass with both hands, squeezing hard, and she bit his lip in response.
"Ow."
"You like it."
"I do." He grinned up at her. "I really do."
She pulled off her tank top. Her sports bra followed. Her skin was flushed from the sun, and there was a smudge of tar on her collarbone, and he wanted to lick it off.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're beautiful."
"I'm sweaty and covered in roof gunk."
"Still beautiful."
She leaned down and kissed him again, slower this time, her tongue sliding against his. He ran his hands up her back, feeling the muscles shift under her skin, and she shivered.
"I want you," she said. "Right now. Right here."
"On the roof?"
"On the roof."
"We could go inside. There's a bed. Well, a mattress on the floor."
"I don't want a mattress. I want you."
She reached for his belt buckle, undoing it with quick, efficient movements. His jeans were loose, and she yanked them down along with his boxers, freeing his cock. He was already hard, achingly hard, and she wrapped her hand around him and stroked once, twice.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"That's the idea."
She stood up just long enough to shimmy out of her shorts and underwear, then knelt back down, positioning herself over him. He could feel the heat of her, the wetness, and he grabbed her hips.
"Wait," he said.
"What?"
"Are you sure?"
She looked at him. The sun was setting behind her, painting her in shades of gold and amber, and she'd never looked more beautiful.
"I'm sure," she said.
She lowered herself onto him.
He slid inside her slowly, inch by inch, and she gasped, her nails digging into his chest. When he was fully inside her, she paused, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
"God," she said. "You're bigger than I expected."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was."
She started to move. Slow at first, grinding her hips against his, finding a rhythm. Then faster. Harder. Her hands braced on his chest, her head thrown back, and he watched her—watched the way her breasts moved, the way her mouth fell open, the way her whole body seemed to glow.
"You like that?" he asked.
"Yes. Fuck, yes."
"Tell me."
"I like it. I like your cock inside me. I like the way you feel."
"More."
"I like the way you look at me. Like you want to devour me."
"I do."
He grabbed her hips and thrust up, hard, and she cried out. He did it again. And again. She leaned forward, her hair falling around his face, and he kissed her, biting her lip, tasting whiskey and sweat.
"Faster," she said.
He rolled them over. She landed on her back with a grunt, the tar paper rough beneath her, and he was on top of her before she could catch her breath. He pushed her legs apart and slammed into her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Harder," she demanded.
He fucked her harder. The roof creaked beneath them, the tar paper shifting under their weight, and for a moment he had a brief, hysterical vision of them falling through, landing in the hallway below, naked and covered in debris.
He didn't care.
She was clawing at his back, her nails leaving marks, and he loved it. He loved the pain, the rawness, the way she was completely unguarded. This wasn't the controlled Priya he'd come to know. This was someone else entirely.
"Don't stop," she said. "Please don't stop."
"I won't."
"Fuck me. Fuck me until I can't think."
He did. He fucked her until his arms shook, until sweat dripped from his forehead onto her chest, until she came with a scream that she buried in his shoulder. He kept going, riding out her orgasm, and when she finally relaxed beneath him, he let himself go.
He came inside her with a growl that came from somewhere deep in his chest. His whole body shuddered, and he collapsed on top of her, both of them fighting for breath.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Priya laughed.
"That was..." she started.
"Yeah," he agreed.
"I don't know what to say."
"Don't say anything."
They lay there, side by side on the tar paper, staring up at the sky. The first stars were starting to appear, faint pinpricks of light in the deepening blue.
"You know," Marcus said, "I think I needed that."
"Me too."
"I'm still scared."
"Of what?"
"Of everything. Of being alone. Of being left behind. Of waking up one day and realizing I'm forty years old and still sleeping on my friend's floor."
Priya turned her head to look at him. "You're not going to be forty and sleeping on a floor."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." She reached over and took his hand. "You're a mess. But you're a good mess. And good messes figure things out eventually."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
He squeezed her hand. "I'm not avoiding him anymore," she said.
"Who?"
"Raj. My climbing partner. I'm going to call him tomorrow. Tell him I'm ready."
"That's good."
"He's going to want to know why I changed my mind."
"What are you going to tell him?"
She was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled.
"I'm going to tell him I met someone who reminded me that being scared isn't a reason to stop living."
Marcus turned his head to look at her. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"Still."
She laughed and pulled him close. They lay on the roof for a long time, long after the stars came out, long after the air turned cold, long after they heard Ethan calling for them from the backyard.
"We should go down," Priya said.
"In a minute."
"You're not going to fall asleep on the roof."
"I might."
"You'll roll off and die."
"At least I'll die happy."
She punched his arm. He laughed.
And somewhere below them, in the house they were slowly rebuilding, Ethan and Jade were doing the dishes together, arguing about grout colors.
The whiskey bottle tipped over sometime around two in the morning.
Neither of them noticed. They were too busy talking—really talking, the kind of talking that happened when the walls came down and the alcohol softened the edges of everything. Marcus had his head on Priya's stomach, her fingers absently carding through his hair, and they'd been trading secrets for hours.
"I used to steal my mom's cigarettes," he admitted. "Smoke them behind the shed. I was twelve. Thought I was so fucking cool."
"Were you?"
"No. I coughed for twenty minutes and threw up in the bushes."
Priya laughed, her whole body shaking beneath him. "That's pathetic."
"I was twelve. Give me a break."
The stars wheeled overhead, impossibly bright this far from the city lights. The roof creaked beneath them, settling into its old bones, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked at nothing.
"I never told anyone this," Priya said. Her voice was quieter now. "But I almost quit climbing. Two years ago. After I took that fall."
Marcus lifted his head. "The one that broke your ankle?"
"Three places. And my wrist. And my confidence." She stared up at the sky. "I was on a route in Yosemite. Easy one. Should have been a warm-up. But I got cocky. Reached for a hold without checking it first. The rock crumbled right out of the wall."
"Fuck."
"I fell thirty feet. The rope caught me, obviously, but I hit the wall on the way down. Hard. I remember lying there, staring at the sky, thinking, 'This is it. This is how I die.'"
Marcus was quiet. He didn't offer platitudes or empty reassurances. He just listened.
"Raj was the one who found me. He'd been climbing ahead, and when he heard me scream, he came back down. He stayed with me the whole time. Talked to me. Kept me conscious." She paused. "I've never thanked him properly. Not really."
"Why not?"
"Because thanking him would mean admitting I needed him. And I don't need anyone."
"That's a lie."
"I know." She sighed. "But it's a comfortable lie."
Marcus sat up, crossing his legs beneath him. The tar paper was cold now, the heat of the day long gone, but he didn't care. He was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world.
"I need people," he said. "That's my problem. I need them too much. I need them to like me, to laugh at my jokes, to tell me I'm not a waste of space."
"You're not a waste of space."
"You don't know that."
"I know you stayed on this roof with me for six hours. I know you helped me tear out a subfloor last week even though you hate manual labor. I know you make Ethan laugh when he's stressed, and you make those terrible sandwiches, and you never once complained about sleeping on a drop cloth."
Marcus blinked. "That's... a lot of things."
"It's the truth."
He didn't know what to say. So he did the only thing that made sense—he leaned over and kissed her.
This time it was slower. Softer. Less desperate and more deliberate. She made a small sound against his mouth, something between a sigh and a moan, and pulled him closer.
"I want you again," she whispered.
"Here? Now?"
"Is there somewhere better?"
He looked around. The roof was flat, shielded from the street by a low parapet wall. The moon was a thin crescent, casting just enough light to see by. It was cold, and it was dirty, and it was the most romantic place he'd ever been.
"No," he said. "There's nowhere better."
She pushed him onto his back, her hands urgent now, pulling at his clothes. He helped her, kicking off his jeans, yanking his undershirt over his head. She stripped off her shorts and underwear, already damp from their earlier encounter, and straddled him without hesitation.
"This time," she said, "I want to watch you."
She lowered herself onto him, taking him inch by inch, her eyes locked on his. He groaned, his hands finding her hips, his fingers digging into her skin.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel incredible."
"Shh. Just watch."
She rode him slowly, deliberately, her hips rolling in a rhythm that made his toes curl. She leaned back, arching her spine, and the moonlight caught the curve of her breasts, the hollow of her throat, the way her lips parted as she breathed.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"Stop talking."
"I can't help it."
She leaned forward, her hands braced on his chest, and kissed him. Her tongue slid against his, tasting of whiskey and salt, and he grabbed her ass and pulled her tighter against him.
"Harder," he said.
"You want it harder?"
"Yes."
She laughed, low and dark, and obliged. She fucked him with a purpose now, her hips slamming against his, her breath coming in sharp gasps. The roof creaked beneath them, the tar paper shifting, and he had a fleeting thought about falling through and dying naked on the second-floor landing.
Worth it, he decided.
"Pinch my nipple," she said.
He did. She gasped, her back arching, and he watched the way her mouth opened, the way her whole body responded to his touch.
"Again," she said.
He did it again. Harder this time. She cried out, her nails raking down his chest, leaving red lines that stung in the cold air.
"I'm close," she said.
"Come for me."
"Not yet. I want you to come first."
"That's not how this works."
"It is now."
She slowed her rhythm and he protested, but she pressed a finger to his lips.
"Shh. Trust me."
She started moving in a different way, a way that made his eyes roll back in his head. She clenched around him, tight and deliberate, and he felt his orgasm building like a wave.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, Priya—"
"Let go."
He did. He came with a strangled cry, his hips bucking up, his hands gripping her thighs so hard he was sure he'd leave bruises. She watched him the whole time, her eyes bright in the moonlight, and when he was done she leaned down and kissed him.
"Good boy," she said.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
He didn't.
She came a minute later—he returned the favor with his fingers, circling her clit while she rode his softening cock. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, and he watched her face as she unraveled. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, their limbs heavy and spent. The cold was creeping in now, settling into their bones, but neither of them moved.
"My phone's going to die," Priya murmured.
"So?"
"Raj is going to call tomorrow, and I won't hear it."
"Text him now. Tell him you're in."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she laughed. "You're right."
"Of course I'm right."
She fumbled for her phone, typed out a message, and hit send. Then she dropped it and closed her eyes.
"I'm not avoiding him anymore," she whispered.
"I'm proud of you."
"Don't be. I'm still scared."
"Everyone's scared." He turned his head to look at her. "The trick is doing it anyway."
She opened one eye. "That's shockingly wise for you."
"I have my moments."
They fell asleep like that—on the roof, on the tar paper, naked in the cold. The whiskey bottle lay on its side. The stars wheeled overhead. And somewhere below them, in the house they were slowly rebuilding, Ethan and Jade had finished the dishes and gone to bed.
The morning came slowly. Gray light seeped over the horizon, and the birds started their racket. The roof was hard and cold, and someone was shaking him.
"Marcus. Marcus, wake up."
He opened his eyes. Priya was leaning over him, her hair a tangled mess, her expression somewhere between panic and amusement.
"We fell asleep," she said.
"I noticed."
"On the roof. Naked."
"I noticed that too."
She grabbed her clothes and started pulling them on. He watched her for a moment, then did the same.
"Ethan's going to find us," she said.
"Probably."
"He's going to ask questions."
"Definitely."
"What are we going to tell him?"
Marcus stood up, stretching. His back ached. His neck was stiff. He had a hickey on his collarbone and a scratch mark on his chest.
"The truth," he said.
Priya stared at him. "The truth?"
"That we were patching the roof. And we fell asleep."
"That's not the truth."
"It's part of the truth." He grinned. "The rest is none of his business."
She shook her head. But she was smiling.
They climbed down the ladder together, barefoot and rumpled. The backyard was a jungle of ivy and forgotten things, and the morning dew soaked through their socks. The house loomed above them, old and broken and beautiful.
Ethan was standing in the doorway, coffee in hand.
"You two look like shit," he said.
"Thanks."
"Long night?"
"The longest."
Ethan looked at Marcus. Then at Priya. Then back at Marcus. Something passed across his face—surprise, maybe, or understanding.
"Okay," he said slowly. "I'm not going to ask."
"Good."
"Jade made pancakes. Come inside."
Marcus and Priya exchanged a look. Then they followed him in.
The kitchen smelled like butter and coffee. Jade was at the stove, flipping pancakes, and she didn't even blink when they walked in. She just handed them each a plate and said, "Eat. You look like you need it."
They ate in comfortable silence. The sun rose higher. The house creaked and settled. And somewhere in the basement, Reginald the ghost kept his cold spot cold.
Later, Priya pulled out her phone and saw that Raj had texted back.
I'll pick you up Saturday. Bring your harness.
She smiled and put the phone away.
Saturday. She'd be ready.