She shoves me.
Hard.
I stumble back. The movement pulls at my wound and I hiss through my teeth.
"They're my father's clothes, you psycho."
I go still.
"What?"
"My father." She crosses her arms. "Left some clothes here in case he came back. Which he hasn't, because I keep telling him I'm fine and he doesn't need to check on me."
Her father.
Her father.
The rage drains out of me like water from a bathtub.
I feel like an idiot.
"Oh."
"Yeah.Oh." She pushes off the wall. Steps around me. "And the next time you talk to me like that, I'm going to hit you. Bullet wound or not."
"Marina—"
"No." She holds up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. Put on the clothes. Or don't. I don't care anymore."
She walks past me.
The bathroom door slams.
I stand in the middle of her living room. Holding her father's sweatpants. Wearing a towel the size of a postage stamp.
Smooth, Castellani. Real fucking smooth.
I look down at the clothes in my hand.
Her father's.
Not some boyfriend's. Not some lover's. Her father's.
I close my eyes.
Idiot.
The jealousy that burned through me moments ago leaves ash in its wake. Shame. Embarrassment. The knowledge that I just acted like a possessive asshole over a woman who owes me nothing.
I walk back to the bedroom.
The t-shirt is soft when I pull it over my head.
The sweatpants fit well enough. A little loose in the waist. A little short in the leg. But they're warm and dry and better than the blood-soaked clothes I arrived in.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
My wound throbs.
