I knew he loved me.

His body said it before his mouth ever could.

⸻

I woke up to sunlight brushing across my face.

Not the harsh kind — but the soft, golden kind that touched skin like a warm hand I never quite believed in.

The bed still smelled like me. And like him.

Familiar.

But nothing special.

I turned my head and found Joss still asleep.

He lay on his side, one hand resting loosely on my stomach.

Breathing steady.

Not clinging — as if afraid I'd mind.

I stared at him for three seconds.

No more.

Then I slipped out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

⸻

I didn't hate Joss.

I didn't love him, either.

I just... didn't care much for those kinds of definitions.

What was love anyway?

A habit with an expiration date.

A transaction wrapped in the pretty packaging of emotion.

A game where the first one to fall loses.

I had watched my parents sleep in the same bed for eighteen years — without touching once.

I had seen my mother cry alone in the kitchen, while my father read the newspaper like nothing was happening.

I grew up in a house where the lights were always on — but it was colder than any darkness.

⸻

So when people talked about love, I just laughed.

Who really loved anyone, honestly?

I never thought I deserved it.

Never thought anyone would be patient enough to stay.

But Joss stayed.

No one made him.

No one tied him down.

Yet every time I texted "You free tonight?" he came.

Never asked who I'd been with before.

Never mentioned the strange marks on my skin.

He just came.

Touched me.

Loved me like it was enough simply to love.

⸻

I stepped out of the bathroom, towel drying my hair.

Joss was awake.

He stood by the kitchen counter, brewing coffee with the machine I'd bought but never used.

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"You're still here?"

Joss turned, smiling.

"The coffee's still hot."

I didn't answer.

⸻

We sat together on the sofa.

He placed a cup in front of me, not pushing.

I took a sip.

The flavor was just right — no sugar, a splash of almond milk.

I looked up at him.

"Do you love me?" I asked.

Joss froze for a second.

"What?"

I repeated, voice even:

"Do you love me?"

He went quiet for a moment.

Then nodded.

"Yeah."

I rested my chin on my hand.

"Why?"

"Because you're you," he said.

I snorted.

"That's the dumbest answer I've ever heard."

"But it's the truth," he said, eyes unblinking.

⸻

I didn't reply.

Instead, I set the cup down and straddled him on the sofa.

I didn't kiss him.

Just nipped at his neck, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt.

He held his breath.

I could feel his body tighten under my hands.

"Still want me after last night?" I asked.

Joss raised a hand, brushing his fingers against my cheek.

His touch was cold.

But so unbearably gentle — like stroking something too fragile to hold.

"I always want you," he said.

I laughed.

Lazy.

Stripped off my own shirt.

Sat astride him, grabbing his hand and pressing it against my waist.

"Then do it.

You love me, right?"

⸻

I let him.

Didn't say a word.

Just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

He kissed me from shoulder to chest.

Slowly.

Gently.

Like he was trying to memorize every inch.

I didn't moan.

Didn't reach back.

Just breathed.

Joss entered me — so slow, so soft —

like he thought I might shatter if he moved too fast.

I didn't shatter.

I just felt hollow.

⸻

I let him reach the deepest parts of me.

Let him call my name between ragged breaths.

Let him tremble when I lifted my hips slightly, whispered against his ear:

"Go harder if you need to feel real."

He hesitated half a beat.

Then did exactly that.

I didn't hurt.

I didn't feel much of anything.

I just kept repeating inside my head: "Love doesn't save anyone."

⸻

When we finished, I turned away.

Joss pulled me into his arms from behind, like always.

"I love you," he whispered into the space between us.

I didn't react.

I didn't pull away, either.

⸻

The next morning, after he left, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

There was a hickey blooming dark on my neck.

Deep. Visible.

I grabbed some concealer and dabbed it carefully.

I had plans later — with someone else.

Someone who hated seeing marks.

I wiped carefully.

The mirror reflected a body laid bare, but not broken.

Not ugly.

Not sad.

Not needing anyone.

Just... cold.

⸻

I stepped out.

Turned on the music.

Another day.

No love.

No pain.

Just living.

And tonight, if the emptiness gnawed at me again,

I'd text Joss:

"You free?"

Because I knew...

he would still come.

Even if all he was ever allowed to do

was pick up the pieces

others left behind on my skin.

⸻