Chapter 17: Love you
The first thing she felt was the warm patch of sunlight across her face. The second was the deep, pleasant ache between her legs. Svet stretched, a slow, cat-like unfurling, a smile already touching her lips before her eyes even opened.
Her hand slid across the sheets, seeking the solid, reassuring heat of him.
It found only cool, rumpled cotton.
Her eyes flew open. The other side of the bed was empty. The pillow bore the faint indentation of his head, but the space was vacant. The bathroom door stood ajar, the light off. Silence, dense and heavy, filled the house.
Her heart dropped like a stone in her chest.
Of course.
The thought was ice water, dousing the lingering warmth from her skin. She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. The memories of the night—his gentleness, his whispered reassurances, the shocking intimacy—now curdled in the harsh morning light. They were just things men did to get what they wanted. A script. She’d heard the lines before, just never delivered by someone who seemed so… convincing.
She felt stupid. A fresh, sharp kind of stupid that burned behind her eyes. She’d let herself be disarmed. By his size, by his quietness, by the way he’d looked at her like she was something precious. She’d fallen for the ultimate cliché: the gentle giant. And now he was gone, the evidence of her naivety a dull throb in her body.
She swung her legs out of bed, her movements stiff. Her clothes were a scattered trail from the door to the bed. Dressing felt like putting on armor. Each piece—her jeans, her top—was a defense restored. By the time she was dressed, her face was set in the old, familiar lines of wry detachment. She’d just get an Uber. She wouldn’t text him. She’d tell Alexa some bland story. She’d go back to the game room, run a table, and forget the feel of his hands.
The front door clicked open.
She froze in the hallway, caught halfway between the bedroom and the living room. Joe stepped inside, dressed in sweats and a Chargers t-shirt, his hair damp from what looked like a quick shower. In one massive hand he held a cardboard tray with two steaming coffee cups. In the other, a small paper bag smelling of yeast and flour.
He saw her. His eyes, always so observant, scanned her from head to toe—the defensive posture, the perfectly composed mask, the fact she was fully dressed and standing by the door.
“Hey,” he said, his voice soft. He nudged the door shut with his elbow. “You’re up.”
She couldn’t speak. The relief that crashed through her was so violently disorienting it felt like nausea. She just stared at him, at the coffees, at the bag of what were undoubtedly bagels.
He set the tray and bag on the small kitchen counter. “I had an early film review call. Didn’t want to wake you. You were out cold.” He paused, watching her. “You thought I left.”
It wasn’t a question. Svet willed her shoulders to drop, to sell the casual shrug. “No. I was just… getting some air.”
One of his eyebrows lifted, just a fraction. He didn’t call her on the lie. “I got coffee. A hazelnut latte, extra shot, right? And an everything bagel, extra cream cheese. Alexa talks. A lot.”
He remembered. The simple act of it, the mundane, thoughtful precision, dismantled another piece of her armor. “Right,” she managed, her voice thin.
“C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the living room. “It’s better on the couch.”
She followed, feeling untethered. He handed her the coffee, his fingers brushing hers. The heat was real, tangible. She sank into the deep cushions of his sofa. He sat not on the other end, but right next to her, his body creating a warm orbit she instinctively leaned into. He pulled the bagels from the bag, handing her one wrapped in wax paper. It was perfect, clumsily over-cream-cheesed just the way she liked it.
For a while, they just ate and drank in a silence that grew more comfortable by the second. The morning sun streamed through the blinds, painting stripes of gold across the floor. He watched her. Not in a hungry way, not like last night, but with a quiet, focused attention that was somehow more unnerving.
She took a sip of the latte, the sweetness hitting her tongue. “Thanks for this.”
“Sure.” He was finished with his own bagel, leaning back, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind her. His gaze was steady, taking in the way she held the cup, the faint smear of cream cheese at the corner of her mouth, the tangled mess of her morning hair.
It was the look that did it. The sheer, unvarnished attention. He wasn’t just looking at her; he was seeing her, in the stark, unflattering morning light, after everything. And he wasn’t recoiling. He wasn’t making a joke. He was just… there.
He reached over, his thumb gently wiping away the cream cheese from her lip. The touch was so unexpectedly tender, so domestic, that something in her chest cracked open.
He looked into her eyes, his own dark and impossibly soft. “Watching you drink that coffee,” he said, his voice a low rumble, barely louder than the hum of the fridge. “It’s stupid, but it’s my new favorite thing.”
He wasn’t smiling. He was utterly serious.
Then the words came out, quiet, matter-of-fact, as if he was simply noting the time of day.
“I love you.”
The mug froze halfway to her lips.
The world narrowed to the three words hanging in the sunlit air between them. They weren’t accompanied by fanfare. They weren’t a plea. They were just a statement, simple and devastatingly true.
Joe’s own eyes widened, just for a microsecond, as if he’d startled himself. He hadn’t meant to say it. But he didn’t take it back. He didn’t flinch. He held her gaze, waiting.
Svet’s mind was a white-noise scream. Every instinct, every scar tissue from every past disappointment, shrieked at her to deflect. To make a joke. To say something cynical. To run.
The words were right there, perched on her tongue: “You barely know me,” or “That’s the post-sex oxytocin talking,” or a simple, flippant “Okay.”
But looking at him—at the quiet vulnerability now etched beside the strength in his face, at the man who’d brought her a bagel and remembered her coffee order—she couldn’t do it. The cruel retorts died unborn.
What came out was a whisper, raw and honest. “I can’t say that back.”
He didn’t look hurt. He looked like he understood. He gave a single, slow nod. “I know.”
“It’s not that I don’t…” She faltered, frustrated, searching for a truth that wasn’t a lie but wasn’t a total surrender. “I just can’t. Not yet.”
“I didn’t say it to get you to say it back,” he said. He took her coffee mug from her stiff fingers and set it on the table. He took her hand instead, enveloping it completely. His palm was warm, calloused. “I said it because it’s true. You don’t have to do anything with it. It’s just yours.”
The simplicity of it shattered her. There was no transaction. No demand. Just a gift, laid at her feet, with no expectation of reciprocity.
She didn’t say it back. The words were a sealed vault inside her, rusted shut. But she didn’t pull her hand away. She laced her fingers through his, clinging to the anchor of his touch. She leaned her head against his shoulder, into the solid wall of him, and let out a shaky breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
They sat like that for a long time, in the silent, sun-filled room, her unanswered confession hanging in the air between them—not as a burden, but as a promise, patient and unyielding, waiting for her to believe it was real.
They sat like that for a long time, in the silent, sun-filled room, her unanswered confession hanging in the air between them—not as a burden, but as a promise, patient and unyielding, waiting for her to believe it was real.
Eventually, the practical need for calories reasserted itself. Svet slowly withdrew her hand from his, the loss of contact a minor chill. She picked up the forgotten bagel from her lap. She took a bite, the crunch of seeds loud in the quiet room, the cream cheese rich and tangy on her tongue.
He watched her chew, his expression unreadable. “So,” he said, his voice careful. “Why did you think I left?”
She swallowed, buying time. The directness of the question was a blade, clean and sharp. She could lie. She almost did. But the ghost of his words—I love you—made her cheap deflections feel like a betrayal of something.
“Because that’s what happens,” she said, her eyes on the half-eaten bagel. “You wake up. The magic hour is over. Reality is awkward and you have to get a protein shake or watch film or just be anywhere else.”
“That’s what has happened,” he corrected softly. “Not what happens.”
She shrugged, a tight, brittle motion. “Semantics. The result is the same. You’re dressed, you’re gone. Saves everyone the uncomfortable morning-after chat.”
“And the bagels?” He asked, a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth.
“An outlier.” She risked a glance at him. “A confusing one.”
“I’m not them, Svet.” He said it plainly, without heat. It wasn’t a plea. It was a fact he was presenting for her examination.
“I know,” she said, and a part of her truly did. “My brain knows. It’s just… my gut has a longer, shittier memory.” She looked at him fully now, letting him see the old cynicism warring with the new, fragile hope. “The guy last year? Leo? He literally climbed out my bathroom window after. Said the squeaky hinge on my bedroom door was giving him anxiety.”
A short, surprised laugh burst from Joe. It was a good sound, warm and real. “A bathroom window? Was he a contortionist?”
“A coward,” she said, but she was smiling a little, too. It felt good to say it, to expose the old hurt to the light of this new morning and watch it seem smaller, almost ridiculous.
Joe’s laughter faded, but the warmth in his eyes remained. He reached out, running a thumb over the back of her knuckles. “My hinge doesn’t squeak. And I don’t fit in bathroom windows.”
“Noted.” She took another bite, feeling the knot in her chest loosen a fraction. The bagel was almost gone. “This is a really good bagel.”
“There’s a place off Roscoe. I’ll take you.” He said it casually, but the implication was a boulder. A next time. A future.
Before she could overthink it, before the walls could reassemble, she acted. She placed the last piece of bagel on the coffee table. She shifted her body, turning to face him on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her. The morning sun caught the gold in her disheveled hair.
Slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, she leaned forward. She didn’t go for his mouth. She pressed her lips to the center of his chest, over the Chargers bolt on his t-shirt. She felt the solid, steady beat of his heart against her mouth, a rhythm more convincing than any words she could muster.
She stayed there for three full beats. I’m here. I’m trying.
When she leaned back, his hand came up to cradle the side of her face. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. He searched her eyes, reading the silent language written there—the fear, the want, the tentative trust.
He didn’t push for more. He simply nodded again, that same understanding in his deep brown eyes. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a seal on the moment.
“C’mon,” he said, his voice a low rumble against her skin. “I’ll drive you home. You probably have things to do.”
She did. A paper was calling her name. But as she gathered her things, the ghost of his heartbeat still on her lips, the thought of her quiet, empty apartment felt like a step backward. The world outside this sunlit room was waiting, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like an escape. It felt like an interruption.