I kept staring at the damn jacket. It hung limply on the back of the bathroom door, like it was mocking me. My lips pressed into a thin line, my arms crossed tightly over my chest as I narrowed my eyes at the black fabric, daring it to move. Daring it to do anything other than sit there, existing.
It didn't, of course. It just hung there, the weight of its presence unbearable. I breathed out through my nose, sharp and irritated, and raised a hand to rest my chin between my thumb and index finger. My other arm stayed crossed, holding myself like it was the only thing keeping me together.
I needed to get rid of it.
The thought hit me for the hundredth time. Just march up to him, shove it into his chest, and be done with this. Get it over with. And yet... I didn't move. I didn't leave the bathroom or grab the jacket to stuff it into a bag or toss it out the nearest window.
Every time I looked at it, every time my eyes caught even the slightest glimpse of that damn thing, I remembered.
The rain. The weight of it soaking through my clothes, dripping into my shoes. The cold bite of it against my skin. And then, his lips.
I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening on my chin as if the pressure would somehow hold the memories at bay. It didn't.
His lips on mine—hard, insistent, angry. I could still feel the heat of them, the way they had pressed against me like he couldn't stand it anymore, like something inside him had snapped. I could still taste the rain on his mouth, cold and sharp, but it wasn't enough to dull the fire of the kiss.
His hands roaming over my body, pulling me closer, like he couldn't get enough. And my hands, traitorous and desperate, gripping him back just as tightly. Holding onto him like I didn't want to stop.
I sucked in a sharp breath, the memory so vivid that it felt like I was back there, standing in the storm with him. My feet shifted on the tile floor, and I turned my back to the jacket, pressing my palms against the sink for support.
No. No, I couldn't think about this. I wouldn't.
I didn't want to talk to him again. I'd made that clear. I told him everything that needed to be said. There was nothing left. I didn't owe him anything—not my time, not my attention, and certainly not another conversation.
Even if it was just to give the stupid jacket back.
But every time I told myself that, the resolve in my chest faltered. Just a little. Because returning it would mean seeing him again. It would mean looking into those eyes and pretending that what happened didn't affect me.
And it did.
I hated that stupid jacket. I hated what it represented. I hated him. I hated that I'd let it happen. I hated that I didn't even try and stop it, that at some point I wanted him to keep kissing me.
