Sunshine warms Tom's face, illuminating his closed eyelids and rousing him from sleep. Moaning, he stretches his arms and legs luxuriously in the king-size bed and buries his face in his pillow before letting the whole of his body relax into the mattress again. Rolling over so that his back is to the window, he chances a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand: it reads just past eight in the morning. Groggily rubbing his face, he rolls over and reaches his arm across the bed to drape over you, only to find empty, tousled blankets. His eyes open in surprise and he takes the note resting on your pillow.
"Dear Tom,
I'm so sorry to leave before we could talk, I had to go into work this morning to cover the science fair when Diane called out sick. You must have gotten in late last night so I didn't want to wake you. I should be home around 5:30 as usual. I love you, so glad you are home and can't wait to see you!
Your Darling
P.S. I made muffins. They are in the oven."
Grinning to himself, Tom rolls over onto his back and reads the letter a few times over just to see your handwriting. Each scribbled letter is like a friendly little wave, easing the ache of homesickness that always builds over the course of his lengthy film shoots. He lays there for a little while, unused to having the freedom to get up and move whenever he chooses rather than having to abide by a rigid schedule. After a while he slides out of bed and walks naked over to the dresser. Opening the top drawer he pulls out his favorite, blue and grey plaid pajama pants and pulls them over his legs, enjoying the small comfort of well-worn cotton as he heads into the master bathroom.
While he'd been gone you had certainly made sure the flat stayed squeaky clean, and even redecorated a little he noticed, his eyes taking in the new sky blue towels, rugs and shower curtain. The two sinks were still clearly divided and he could tell that while he'd been gone you'd not used his side at all, seeing as how it looked just same as when he'd left. Smirking, hoping more than anything you'll at least call to say hello while on your lunch break, Tom washes his hands and follows the hallway into the kitchen.
Just as your note promised there is a covered platter in the oven. Tom lifts the lid and is immediately ravenous at the aroma of his favourite banana nut muffins; he grabs one and takes a huge bite from the billowing top. They are still warm and he groans appreciatively, snatching a second before making his way over to the sofa, upon which he promptly collapses on then. He then grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns on the LED TV.
Tom spends the next hour being gloriously lazy, flipping between news reports, talk shows, and even the occasional soap opera; with the latter he had particular fun muting the volume and trying to deduce what plot point was unfolding. He is just finishing up his second muffin and wondering which man had impregnated the socialite's daughter when he hears his text alert go off from across the room. Tom nearly flips off the couch in his excitement, running pell-mell to the counter where he'd left his phone the night before.
A huge smile spreads on his face when he sees that the text is from you, begging for him to sign into your email on your laptop and mass message the RSVP reminder to the wedding contact list. A warm glow spreads through his chest while reading your words and he longs to see you, promptly sending a return text saying he would do whatever you asked of him. Making a quick pit stop to grab a third muffin, Tom hums to himself as he walks into the second bedroom, which you had both unanimously chosen to convert into an office.
The room is by far your favorite in the flat, he knew. The walls were lined with bookshelves and there is an enormous window that overlooked London. There you can gaze out at the passing cars and twinkling city skyline while sitting at the desk and grading papers. Tom plops down in the high-backed office chair and opens your laptop, finishing the last few morsels of his muffin while waiting for the main screen to load. When it does he is greeted with a new wallpaper that you must have just recently swapped to: a picture of the two of you from your weekend together in Rome just before he'd left for America to begin filming Only Lovers Left Alive. The sight brings a fresh smile to his face and he double clicks the Chrome icon; up pops Google and he places the cursor in the address bar. The moment he types "g" for Gmail he is greeted by a suggested url that startles him.
