Normani/You Shorts

favorite mistake

Come over.

I can't, not tonight. I promised him I'd make it to the restaurant opening before 7.

As your eyes scan the text, your lips pout into a light frown of disappointment as your thumbs waste no time responding.

Come after, then.

A few minutes pass while you wait for her response, a half empty glass of red wine held by your dominant hand, your cell phone palmed in the other. Just as the pad of your index finger moves to lock your phone and your robe covered body rises off the leather sofa to head to your room, grey colored bubbles suddenly appear in the chat, signaling her typing.

Then, it stops. A second later, you get a phone call, her face covering your screen with a green accept or a red decline option.

Your thumb presses the same color it always has whenever she attempts to call you.

Red.

She knows (and loathes) that you're not a fan of phone calls, yet still takes the chance to dial your number in hopes you'd pick up.

A text delivers to you a second later. Instead of an actual typed message, however, it's a voice memo that's only ten seconds long.

"I hate that you never answer your fucking phone when I call."

Her voice is taut and laced with annoyance. Even though you've ticked her off, it triggers a bodily reaction from you, your lips slightly parting as your lungs exhale, ears intently tuned in.

"I'm ten minutes away. Leave the door unlocked for me."

You're completely relaxed in your bedroom when you hear the clicking of heels signaling her arrival. You don't bother to leave the comfort of the bed, however, your eyes trained on the pages of Rupi Kaur's Home Body.

You feel her presence by the doorframe, then you hear her voice.

"We can't keep doing this, Y/N."

"Then why are you here?"

The question holds no emotion in your voice, but the chambers of your heart beats steadily with the butterflies only she can deliver.

When she hesitates to respond, you close your book, lifting your gaze toward her.

She looks stunning; her black off-the-shoulder dress showcasing every curve of her athletically toned body, her matching high heels just as menacing as her smoky makeup look. Her dark hair cascades down her back in curly waves, few pieces of custom made jewelry completing the look.

Her soft, chestnut colored irises—those damn eyes that are so easy for you to drown in—linger on you, full of emotion that's easy for you to sift through and differentiate in a matter of seconds. Emotions that she no longer bothers to camouflage.

"I don't know."

"Well, in any case, I'm glad you came."

Her intense gaze wavers, and she sighs audibly, one of her hands pressing to the dark wood of the doorframe as if to steady herself. Her eyes flicker to the sheets of your bed, as if reminiscing on the many nights she spent laid beneath you in this very room.

"You look beautiful," you say, effectively breaking her reverie.

"I love you," she answers, and your heart somersaults against your ribcage.

She's only admitted to loving you once before, the last night the two of you were tangled in the sheets together, two months ago. When those eight syllables passed her lips the first time, her eyes were filled with tears, ones she assured you were due to happiness. Relief, more so, since she was holding herself back from falling for you all this time.

Because although she loves you, she's still married to someone else.

"I love you too," your voice is soft and sincere, "you know I do."

She wants you.

You can tell in the way her body reacts to your words, her milky brown eyes gentle and unwavering as you stare into them.

But she doesn't give into the lingering tension. Instead, she inhales sharply through her nostrils as she straightens her posture. "I should go."

You nod, disappointment radiating off of you in waves as you set your book on your nightstand.

But what else should you expect? Your relationship has always been this way.

"Okay. I'll walk you out."

She takes one of your hands in her own two when you make it to the front door. Her warm, full red coated lips that press against your palm sends delicious shivers through your veins, and your mind momentarily wanders to times where her red lips wandered to other places of your body—places you've allowed only her to explore.

You only realize your eyes are brimming with tears when she's wiping them with the pad of her thumb.

She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't need to. Her loving eyes clearly covey her unspoken words.

You grip the hand that palms your face, turning your head to kiss her opened palm in return. Your fingers brush against the wedding band on her ring finger, the true declaration of love that was given to her by another.

And even though she doesn't love him, she still stays, knowing that she's breaking not only your heart, but her own as well as her husband's.

How exactly would he react when he discovers his wife has been sleeping with the planner for their wedding throughout their entire marriage?

"Please, be safe."

"I will be, I promise. We'll talk later."

Your intwined hands don't break until she's too far for you to reach her, and you watch as she walks to her car, gets inside, and drives away.

//\\

So, I was listening to Giveon last night and this beauty was developed from that.

I purposefully left Normani's name out of this one really for no particular reason; this oneshot seemed to flow better only using she/her pronouns.

Thank y'all for reading. I really enjoyed writing this one~