She wasn’t jealous, god no. She didn’t feel a thing — not jealousy, not anger, not even slight disappointment.
Morgan kept repeating herself that, as they drove home in a stubborn quiet, as her nails kept digging into her own arms to suffocate the rage that she did not feel.
She kept biting her lips in the vain attempt to choke the words she did not want to say, and even when they finally got home, she had to dive into their apartment as soon as he had opened the door to avoid giving him the slap she did not feel the need to give him.
Why would she be jealous?
It’s not like he had been smiling and joking with a living Barbie doll the whole night; not like he even owed her an explanation, right?
They were roommates. Just roommates. Roommates who occasionally fucked the night away, roommates who occasionally spat words at each other like it was a fucking competition of who could hurt the other the most and survive and — fuck, she needed some air.
Quietly (usually, her rage was even clearer when she was this quiet), Morgan grabbed a can of beer from the fridge and opened the window, eyes carefully fixed on anything that wasn’t Mike — part of her wanted to speak. It was clear, since she hadn’t hidden herself in the mess of her own room to avoid even looking at him — but even so, she really wasn’t sure she could keep herself from saying something very stupid, right now.
Or doing something — throwing something sharp his way, probably.
