"Why?"
I don't answer. I can't answer. Because the truth is ugly and possessive and I have no claim on her. No right to feel this way.
But I feel it anyway.
"Dante." Her voice is careful now. Measured. "You need to calm down."
"I'm calm."
"You're shaking."
I look down at my hands. She's right. The sweatpants tremble in my grip.
I take another step toward her.
She takes a step back.
"Who left these here?"
"That's none of your business."
"Marina."
"No." Her chin lifts. Defiant. "You're standing in my living room in a hand towel, waving a pair of sweatpants at me like I've committed a crime. What exactly do you think you're doing?"
I don't know.
I don't fucking know.
All I know is that the thought of another man in her apartment—in her bed—makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
I close the distance between us.
She retreats.
Her back hits the wall.
I plant my hand beside her head. Lean in. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat.
"Who," I say, my voice low, "left his clothes in your apartment?"
Her eyes flash.
"And why the hell do you think I'm going to wear them?"
"Because you don't have anything else."
"I'd rather walk around naked."
"You're being ridiculous," she says.
"Answer the question."
"Or what?"
I lean closer. My lips brush her ear.
"Or I'll find out myself."
