Movement catches the corner of my eye. In all the commotion with my dad, I’d stopped listening to her moving around upstairs, but here Ev stands, freshly showered and in one of my old hockey T-shirts. Something stirs inside my chest at the way the fabric hangs off her shoulder and grazes her upper thigh. Her long, wet hair has soaked the right side of her shirt, and like the asshole I am, I notice that she’s not wearing a bra. “Enjoy rifling through my clothes?” I ask with bite in my tone. It has nothing to do with her taking my shirt and everything to do with my reaction to this whole fucking
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