"I could count every kiss on your body.

And I knew exactly which ones... weren't mine."

⸻

Gawin opened the door wearing nothing but a towel slung lazily around his hips.

A fresh bite mark bloomed along his collarbone.

I looked.

I didn't ask.

I walked in as if I had been invited.

He turned his back on me without a word.

No greetings.

No hesitation.

No attempt to hide.

The way Gawin moved — effortless, reckless, devastatingly beautiful — made me want to destroy everything in this apartment.

Or fall to my knees like a dog too broken to remember how to fight back.

⸻

I used to tell myself:

As long as he didn't tell me to leave, I would stay.

As long as he still texted — even just a word — I would come.

As long as I could find even one kiss on him that was mine, I could convince myself I still mattered.

Tonight, there were at least three new marks.

On his neck.

His stomach.

His arm.

I didn't ask.

I had already promised myself: I didn't need to know.

As long as he called my name — even if it was the last name he called.

⸻

He came out of the bathroom, towel looser than before, hair damp from the shower.

"You got here quick," he said, voice absent of any real emotion.

I sat on the sofa, unbuttoning my shirt.

"Was nearby. You called, so I came."

"Mm."

A lazy nod.

"Then get in bed. I'm tired tonight."

I stood.

Closed the distance between us.

Grabbed his wrist.

Pulled him down onto the bed.

⸻

I kissed him like I wasn't just someone who came second.

Bit down on the soft skin of his shoulder like I had any right.

Left marks so dark, so deep, it felt like maybe — if I made enough — the others would fade.

Gawin said nothing.

Didn't moan.

Didn't push me away.

He simply closed his eyes, parted his lips slightly, and breathed.

The way he didn't resist only made the desperation sharper.

⸻

He was used to this.

Used to being wanted.

Used to people trying to own this body with nothing but their hands and hunger.

And me —

I wasn't the first.

I wouldn't be the last.

Still, tonight, I kept going.

Still held him.

Still moved with him.

Still lost myself in every breath, even knowing his heart had never — and would never — skip for me.

I held on like a man gripping water, pretending it wouldn't slip through his fingers.

When he clutched my shoulders, when he whispered my name — my name, not someone else's — I thought maybe I had won.

A small victory.

A hollow one.

⸻

I pushed his wrists above his head, pinning them with one hand.

Gawin didn't struggle.

Didn't push back.

Didn't lean in.

He just breathed, eyes half-closed.

"Look at me," I whispered.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Cold.

Empty.

Not hateful — just... untouched.

I hated that look.

It was colder than rejection.

More brutal than indifference.

I bent down, kissing across his chest.

Each kiss was slow, hard, almost cruel —

A bite here.

A suck there.

Enough to bruise.

Gawin said nothing.

"So this body..."

I shut my eyes against the sting.

"...belongs to anyone willing to take it."

I pulled back for a moment.

Gawin tilted his head at me, almost bored.

"Jealous?"

"No."

"Really?"

I didn't answer.

I grabbed him, pulled him onto my lap, straddling me.

Held the back of his neck.

Leaned in, lips grazing his ear:

"But tonight, I'm the last one who touches you.

And tomorrow...

if anyone else tries—

they'll see my marks first."

I lifted him, lowered him onto me fully.

Gawin shivered — but still didn't cry out.

I stayed there, deep, unmoving, until he trembled from the sheer strain.

⸻

We clung to each other like strangers, lost and reaching by instinct.

Except I was the only one desperate to remember.

He was just letting me.

I bit into his shoulder.

Gawin flinched.

"That hurts," he said.

I lowered my voice against his skin:

"Then remember me properly."

⸻

We shifted.

I pushed him down onto his stomach, running my fingers down his spine — feeling every sharp vertebra like a blade under my hand.

I wasn't gentle.

Love had stripped that from me.

I didn't say "I love you."

He didn't need to hear it.

I just breathed harder.

Shook harder.

And kept moving inside him — as if stopping meant losing him forever.

⸻

In the end, I collapsed against him.

Chest to back.

One hand clutching his hip so tight I knew it would leave bruises.

Gawin panted.

And then —

he said, so quietly it almost wasn't there:

"...You'll leave marks."

I didn't know if he meant it as a warning, a complaint, or something else entirely.

I just answered:

"I know."

And I didn't stop.

⸻

Afterward, he turned onto his side, facing away.

I pulled him back into me, an arm around his waist, chin resting in the crook of his neck.

I pressed a kiss to his nape — the only gentle kiss I gave him all night.

Gawin didn't react.

But he didn't pull away, either.

And tonight, for me, that was enough.

⸻

That night, I lay curled behind him.

He slept.

His back was still warm.

The marks I left still visible against his skin.

I didn't know if he'd scrub them away in the morning.

Didn't know who he'd kiss next.

Didn't know if he called my name tonight because he missed me — or because everyone else was busy.

I didn't ask.

I didn't need answers.

All I needed...

was to stay.

Even if just for one more night.

Even if all I ever got to do was count the kisses left by someone else

on the body I loved.

⸻