I turn and face the wall, staring at the paint and the small crack near the ceiling I keep meaning to fix, staring at anything except the knowledge that behind me, Isabella is stepping out of that dress.
I hear fabric rustle—the whisper of silk sliding down skin and hitting the floor with a soft sound that shouldn't affect me as much as it does. Her breathing comes uneven and quick, and I count the seconds.
Footsteps. Soft. Bare feet on hardwood.
She's moving, picking up my shirt, pulling it on.
I count to twenty in my head and force my hands to stay in my pocket, force myself to stare at the wall like my life depends on it because, fucking hell, maybe it does.
"Okay. You can turn around."
I count to three just to make sure I’m still in control of my fucking body.
Then I turn.
And every thought in my head goes silent.
She's drowning in my clothes.
The t-shirt hangs to her thighs and the sleeves go past her elbows, the neckline too wide and slipping off one shoulder to show her collarbone. The sweatpants are rolled at the waist once, twice, three times and still too long, pooling at her ankles in a way that should look ridiculous.
She's swimming in fabric that smells like me, wearing my clothes against her bare skin with her wet hair soaking dark patches into the navy blue.
And she's looking at me, waiting for some reaction with her arms crossed defensively over her chest.
My mouth goes dry.
What the fuck do I do now?
I want to cross this room and fist my hands in that shirt, feel my fabric against her skin, pull her close enough to feel she's not wearing anything under it. I want to push her back onto my bed and watch her hair spread across my pillow, see her in my clothes in my space and make her understand that she's mine—has always been mine––even when I sent her away, even whenI broke her heart, even after I've spent four years pretending I don't think about her every second of every day.
"Well?" Her voice cuts through the silence like a knife. "Are you going to say something or just stare?"
"They fit."
"They're huge, Enzo. I'm drowning." She scoffs.
"They'll work."
"That's it? That's all you've got?" She crosses her arms tighter and the shirt pulls across her chest in a way that's going to kill me. "No comment on how ridiculous I look?"
You look like you're mine. Like you're wearing my clothes and sleeping in my bed and I want to keep you here forever.
"You look fine, Isabella."
"Fine." She gives a short and sharp and bitter laugh. "You're a terrible liar."
"I'm not lying."
"No? Then why won't you look at me properly?"
Because if I look any harder I'm going to touch, and if I touch I'm going to kiss, and if I kiss I'm going to ruin everything.
I look at her fully and let myself see all of it, her in my shirt and pants and wet hair, standing in my room like she belongs here.
"There," I say, my voice rough and tense. "I'm looking."
"And?"
