crush imagines (female crush)

forgiveness

 After she left, slamming the door behind her, leaving her jacket on the radiator and her hat on the kitchen counter, the house felt still. I stood in front of the doorway for a moment, wondering what this meant. We'd never had a fight like this before.

We'd had little arguments about this or that— the way I parallel parked too far from the curb, the way she took her tea with no sugar. We'd even had a few arguments that ended dates early. But those were rare. And this? This was worse.

I finally peeled myself from the doorway and walked into the dining room to begin cleaning up. Cleaning was always a good escape. I took my time tonight, walking things to the kitchen one at a time, and making sure to get every inch of the table wiped down. I even wiped the chairs and vacuumed, activities I usually reserved for designated cleaning days.

Every once in a while I'd catch sight of one of the bits of her that was scattered throughout the apartment. I moved them all into a pile on the coffee table in the living room. I almost laughed when I found her underwear strewn in the bathroom. If she were there, I would have thrown it  at her, and she would have thrown them back. It would have gone on like that, a stupid throwing match, until she tackled me and kissed me until I stopped laughing.

It was raining outside.

I wandered over to her jacket and smelled it. The outside smelled like earth and water, the inside smelled like her. I slid it on and popped my earbuds in. Some random Europe would be sure to keep the thoughts at bay.

There was a knock on the door 1 hour and 45 minutes into my playlist. I thought about ignoring it, but something drew me towards the door. I briefly fixed my hair in the mirror, and wiped away the few tear stains that ran in rivulets over my cheekbones.

She was sopping wet, and uncharacteristically gloomy. I leaned on the doorway.

"Hey," I faltered, wishing things were simple enough to let her in.

"Hi," she responded. We were both acting like it had been months instead of a few hours. In a way, that's what it had felt like.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You must have come for your jacket." I began to slide it off, goosebumps rising on my skin as it hit the chilly air. "Here."

But she didn't take it, just muttered "excuse me" and brushed past me. If she were anyone else, I would have berated the invasion of privacy. But it was her, and she seemed to have a plan.

"I'm an idiot," she blurted, crossing the threshold of no return. "I'm a fucking idiot. Okay?"

I said nothing and closed the door.

"Look, we— I— that was unnecessary. I shouldn't have brought up salary."

She was right, for once. She shouldn't have brought up salary. She shouldn't have made me feel shitty for doing a job I loved instead of a well-paying brain-numbing corporate job.

"We'll have to have that conversation sometime," I noted, passing her her hat.

"We'll have to have it when I'm not using it in a power struggle." She placed her head in her hands and rubbed her temples for a moment. "We're equals, Y/N. I'll always see us as equals."

"Me too," I confirmed.

There was a long pause as I placed my hands in my pockets and she placed hers in those of her own coat. She had taken off her muddy boots when she'd come in, aware that I had a strict no outdoor show policy in my apartment. The damn fool had slipped off her shoes for me.

"I'm sorry," she finally admitted. "And I can't lose you. That's why I'm back, it's not about the jacket, or... it's about you, Y/N. I can't let this go."

I faced her and studied her face. Her expression was sincere, yet tortured.

"And I'm sorry."

"It's not okay. But I forgive you," I decided, rubbing my arms. 

Before I could blink, her arms were wrapped tightly around my waist.

Upon releasing me, eyes red and puffy, she strolled into the dining room and surveyed the table where I'd been flicking dried ramen noodles at her just hours ago. She smiled.

"If I ever do something like that again, I give you permission to slap me," she smiled.

"Don't tempt me, C/N," I joked. I could never slap her.

She sat down at the table and patted the seat across from her. I joined her and she placed her feet on top of mine, blanketing them in the warmth of her Pokemon socks.

"So, about Sicily..."

The fight had been about vacation, about who was paying for what, about whether we could afford it. We needed one, that was for sure, but we needed an attainable one. Sicily was a stretch, looking back on it, for either of us.

"We should put a hold on that one, I think."

She nodded her head in agreement. "Good. Because I just ran to the computer café down the street and ordered us some train tickets. How does New York sound?"

A smile crept along my face that made her bite her lip and raise her left eyebrow.

"Yeah?" she confirmed, waving her phone as if it were a ticket.

"Yeah," I beamed. "Hell yeah. I've been craving shawarma."

"Great," she nodded. She reached across the table, intertwined her fingers with mine.

"I'm always going to come back, okay? Don't you dare think I'd leave you."

I nodded, struck by her confidence in her love for me.

"I'm sorry. For calling you an asshole." I'd yelled it as she'd stormed off towards the door.

"Oh, Y/N."

She stood and stripped off her wet shirt, revealing a smooth, slick back. Once the shirt was hanging on the coat rack, she turned back to me, ran a hand through her hair.

"You do that anyway."