English Love Affair » z.m au

8. "Zayn x"

A/N: Thank you for 600 reads, they're not much, but they're enough for me :)

please comment and let me know what you think, ily x

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Scar

 

The raw emotion I felt when his eyes secretly met mine was like nothing I had ever allowed myself to feel.

My almost lifeless body was revived, allowing the blood to flow through the veins that I  thought had dried.

I could breathe again.

I felt like a fucking high school girl, silently flirting with her crush, but I didn’t care.

He was keeping me fucking sane at that moment, and I would take anything.

Every time I tilted my head ever so slightly, I’d find him smiling reassuringly at me.

He didn’t look at my bare skin.

He didn’t look at the curves revealed by my dress.

He looked past all that shallow shit, digging deep into my soul, to reach all that I had been trying desperately to bury.

I spent years and years, building this dam, brick by brick, molding it into my being, so that I was part of it, and it was part of I.

That dam caved, stumbling to barriers in front of his dominating power.

The voices shied away, because how could they ever stand against his raspy, tender voice?

The scars covered under the healthy skin, because his eyes deserved to see nothing less than perfect.

All signs of destruction reformed under the magic of his touch.

I rose from my seat, Patrick’s arm possessively circling around my waist, as he guided us out of the restaurant.

My desperate eyes lingered upon Zayn’s.

God, even his name had a beautiful sound to it.

I didn’t know what it meant, but it reminded me of all that was good about this fucking world.

I walked past him, brushing my hand against his, only he buried a small piece of paper into my hand, before I could fight against it, or even process what was happening. I attempted to slow down my racing heart, as we reached Patrick’s car. The drive to the house was excruciating because fuck, I wanted to look at that paper and see his handwriting as it spoke to me.

I bet his handwriting was artistic, much like everything else about him.

It probably looked like nothing else.

Something that only Zayn could create.

We reached the house, and I quickly rushed to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

I stared down at the piece of paper that held a few incoherent numbers.

Followed by a word.

A single syllabus.

“ Zayn x”

I took my phone out of my clutch, saving the number, for some other time.

Another time when I wasn’t a married woman.

When life hadn’t fucked me over.

A time when I had anything at all to offer.

A time when I was someone else, and so was he.

Maybe then, calling him would have felt a bit more right.

Maybe then, we would have had a chance.

But life wasn’t always fair.

Screw that, life was never fucking fair.

I stripped out of my dress, removing the last traces of makeup, before putting my hair into a ponytail, walking out of the bathroom in my bra and underwear. Patrick sat on his side of the bed, both hands resting on his thighs, wearing his favorite pajamas. I walked to my side of the bed, before he tilted his head towards me, his blue eyes, cold, emotionless.

“ What happened back there?”

Fuck.

Did he know of Zayn?

Did he see his number?

Did he catch us, stealing glances?

Fuck.

“ What do you mean?” I barely managed to whisper through the lump in my throat.

“ You were a mess. You kept zoning out, shaking your legs, doing this hand shit you do. This isn’t how Patrick Dawson’s wife is supposed to act. You should act your role, and act it well, Scarlett.” His firm gaze was merciless, as it tore every drop of self-respect to shreds.

“ I wasn’t feeling so well and-“

“ I don’t give a fuck!” He roared, rising from his sleeping position. Suddenly, I was pinned to the wall, my body too slow to defend itself. Air was slowly departing my lungs, and I felt all composure fading away.

“ Do this again, and I swear, you’ll regret it. I promise you.”

He was always a man of his words; that Patrick.

Especially when it came to causing destruction upon his surroundings.

Proving his strength and limitless power, through diminishing my mere existence.

I wanted to fight back.

God, did I want to stand up for myself.

But today was a bad day.

Today was a low point.

And I didn’t have it in me to fight.

So I nodded, putting my hands up in surrender.

“ I am sorry.” I choked out.

His eyes looked into mine, but they couldn’t possibly see past the exterior aura.

They couldn’t scratch the surface.

They could wound it, attack it, and possibly break it.

Yet, that was all that was under their control; the outer, thinner, layer.

They couldn’t detect the hidings under that revealed layer.

They were as blind as their holder.

He eventually let go of me, when my sight had begun to blur, and all was on the verge of drowning in black. I fell to the ground, and he walked over me, back towards his side of the bed, on which he laid, and almost immediately, slipped into content sleep.

My failed arms, caused me to collapse fully onto the floor, on which I laid all through the night, away from him, from that torturous bed, and all that was related to the pathetic life I led.