Let me Lie to Myself

You can't sleep.

You made a big mistake, a grave one, you think, and it's keeping you awake. And yet you are not running, trying to erase the last couple of hours from your existence – the fight, the harsh words, and then eyes lock and lips meet and clothes are torn and he is inside you –, no, you are only turning your back to him, lie on your side, curled up, and hope that he's asleep. (Because how can something so wrong feel so right, be so good?)

You can't sleep or move or do anything, but one thing – think about what tomorrow will bring –, but that's the last thing you want to do.

You don't want to deal with what is coming next.

Because he was gentle and loving with you and kissed your scars and made your sigh, but it was just sex for you, good sex, but just sex. You don't want it to be anything but sex, angry, ruthless, long overdue sex (even though you know it wasn't that).

You can't deal with anything more than that.

But now he must think that everything is forgotten; that the past is the past, and you two can start a new chapter on fresh pages, written in ink of the legends, not in blood. (It must make him happy, relieved. He smiled that smile earlier, that smile from the early days, when you two teased each other in the cargo hold and played board games and everything was right in the world.)

But you can't. Not now, not ever.

(But then why do you want that?)

He wakes; or he has been awake all along, just still. His hand, calloused from years of fighting, is on the curve of your waist, testing the waters, feeling the soft skin. You get goosebumps.

Then you feel the mattress dip and his warm breath is on your neck. His lips are hot and soft and perfect, and for a moment you forget that you are supposed to hate him.

(Not like you actually hate him.)

He moves closer, and his body aligns with yours, and it feels great, and in spite of yourself you relax, and there's a fire inside you that was raging a couple of hours ago that is now rekindling, and what harm would it do to let him in again? To let him worship your body?

(It's just a body; it's just chemistry, the work of the hormones and the nerves, and it makes you feel good; it has nothing to do with the past or regrets or betrayals. In the act, you cease to be people – in the act, you are just bodies seeking pleasure.)

So it's completely okay.

But then his lips are at your ear, and he is whispering into it.

"Skye, I lo–"

You jump up like you were hit by lightning. (No, you don't want to hear that, no, he can't say that, no, he can't feel that way, no, he can't say that to you…)

You leap out of bed, naked and bare, in every sense of the word, but you are too scared to care about it.

"No," you say sharply, the word a hiss on your lips. "Don't you dare to say that!"

He rises too, the sheets falling away – he is baring himself to you, too.

"Skye, I–"

"No!" you shout, franticly, then push your hair out of your eyes. "You can't say that, do you understand? Not now, not ever… I…" You look around, panicked, then give up. It's no use. You pick up your clothes from the floor and turn to go. "I have to leave. Now." You don't even give him a chance to reply; you are already out of the room.

You don't start crying until after you are back to the haven of your own room; but then the tears come like a waterfall.

Sex, you can deal with. And you can pretend to hate him. You can act like you don't care.

But you can't hear him say those three words.

Because then you'd want to say it back, but you can't.