Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at herself in the mirror. The bruises on her shoulders and hips are fading away; they'll be invisible by tomorrow.
Jason was so careful of her in bed. Gentle and sweet; he was a skilled and generous lover. Every time he'd return for a mission, they would have a few, precious days together and they never wasted them. They'd playfully explore each other's body, tickling, and kissing, teasing each other's desires. But, always, as the next mission drew closer, he'd begin to hold himself back. They still had sex, but his whispered confessions of love faded away, and he would stare into her eyes, silently, there were no giggles, fewer gentle caresses, no lingering kisses.
And always, on their last night together, his lovemaking turned into something different. He'd hold her tight, almost possessively. It was, she thought, as if he was afraid of losing her. He'd grip her shoulders so hard she'd have the marks of his fingers on her for at least a week. He'd run his hands along her body, as if trying to memorize her. He'd take her roughly by her hips and flip her over, crushing her against him so tightly that she'd struggle to breathe. He'd rake his hands along her back up into her hair, wrapping the long blond hair around his fist and pull her head back to bite that sensitive place between her collar bone and throat. He'd always refuse to let her touch him, pinning her wrists forcefully, almost violently above her head. There were no kisses shared on these nights. And when he wrapped his hand around her throat, cutting off her air, and pressing his forearm painfully across her chest, her head would spin.
She knew that she should be afraid of him when he was like this, but she never was.
He'd leave when he was finished, always without saying goodbye. She knew he just found it impossible to put it into words and she never could quite figure out if he realized what he was doing. Marking her, giving her a tangible reminder of them, because he knew, deep inside, that one day, he wouldn't make it back to her.
She presses on the last faint mark- just to make sure that it still hurts. Just to make sure that it was real.