There you both sat in your bedroom, house vacant with boxes of chocolate and cat hair littered about. You both knew this wasn’t right, but he couldn’t help but want you, who so happened to be married already. He burrows his face into your neck to appreciate your scent, arms snaked around your waist, an anchor to the volatile storm brewing in his head. He lifts his head, giving you a soft glare of vulnerability.

“Honey, I’ve been waiting for you to tell me you’re in love. I need to know that I’m enough,” he sighs with a conflicting gaze. “I couldn’t care less about your husband.”

His love for you is unmatched, however, your love for your husband is tethered to the band around that god-forsaken finger. He buries his face deep into your warm nape.

“The girls my age don’t listen.”