I stalk toward the kitchen. A beer will help. Inside the fridge there’s a cherry pie.
Sitting in the center like a calling card.
I don’t touch it. I close the fridge and walk out, grabbing nothing, beer forgotten.
She was here. In my house.
I’m moving before the rage can catch up. Bathroom’s first.
Lipstick. On the mirror.
A heart.
A fucking kiss.
I stare at it like I can make it unsay whatever the fuck it’s saying. Pretending I’m not one step away from licking the glass just to feel close to her.
She sprayed herself with my cologne. The air is thick with it. My lungs contract.
I storm to the bedroom.
Her dress is on the bed. Draped over my blanket. A wet dream got naked and made itself comfortable. It’s soft and pastel and smells like her.
There’s a bag on my pillow. Her gift. Her chaos. Something probably dumb and sentimental and diabolical. My brain’s already short-circuiting because her scent is in my sheets. She touched my pillow.
My fists clench. My jaw cracks.
I’m hard and furious and overwhelmed with a possessiveness I didn’t ask for.
My softest shirt’s gone. Drawer’s open like an echo. She rifled through me and took what she wanted.
I stand there breathing like I’ve just run a marathon through rage and boners.
She wore it home.
She’s walking around in my fucking shirt like she’s been knighted in dick-hunting madness and this is her prize.
She got in.
Touched things.
Undressed. In my house. Out of her dress. Into my clothes. Sprayed my cologne. Left her lipstick. Left her mark.
Kissed my mirror imagining I was gonna walk in and see it and know I belonged to her.
And I do.
Fucking hell. I do.
I stalk to the gift bag and snatch it open.
There’s a stuffed chili pepper in the bag. Red. Angry. Smiling like it’s in on the joke.
I hold it up. Stare at it as if it’ll explain itself. Or punch me in the face and make me forget how soft her thighs felt locked around my waist.
It’s spicy, adorable, and squeezable. Just like her.
I should throw it. I want to throw it.
