Don’t say anything about the pajamas. Don’t say anything about the nipples. Don’t say anything that makes you sound like a possessive asshole.
“The first one,” I said slowly, “is no random guys in my house.”
Her head tilted. “Excuse me?”
“If you’re going to date, fine.” The word caught in my throat, bitter. “Just ... not in my living room. Okay?”
For a beat, I thought she might fight me on it. Demand to know why I thought I had any say over her life. Call me out for being a hypocrite, or an idiot, or both.
Instead, she laughed.
Not a big, wild laugh. Just a low, disbelieving huff that did nothing to reassure me. She shook her head, amusement curving her mouth, and didn’t bother giving me an answer at all.
She just slipped her keys into her coat pocket, opened the door, and stepped out into the cold, leaving my rule hanging in the air like an unanswered question.
Somehow that made me even more pissed off.
