And freeze.
There are clothes laid out on the mattress.
Men's clothes.
A pair of gray sweatpants. A white t-shirt. Both folded neatly. Both clearly not mine.
My blood runs cold.
Then hot.
I stare at the clothes like they've personally insulted me. Like they're a threat I need to eliminate.
Whose fucking clothes are these?
The sweatpants look worn. Soft from washing. The t-shirt is plain. Basic. The kind of thing a man keeps in a drawer for lazy Sundays.
The kind of thing a man leaves at a woman's apartment.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
Who the fuck has been in her apartment?
I grab the sweatpants. The fabric is soft in my fist. I want to tear it apart.
Who touched her?
The thought makes something violent twist in my chest. Something I have no right to feel. Something I feel anyway.
I don't bother getting dressed.
I storm back into the living room.
Marina is on the couch. She looks up when I appear. Her eyes drop to the towel then back to my face.
"I thought I told you to?—"
I hold up the sweatpants.
"What the fuck are these?"
She blinks.
"Those?" She tilts her head. "People call them clothes."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't be cute." I take a step toward her. "Whose are they?"
She stands up from the couch. Slowly. Like she's dealing with a wild animal.
Smart woman.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
