The Only Exception - {TOM HOLLAND}

O N E

"Home sweet home," you breathe as you toss your keys into the door-side table.

You shut your door with a soft kick of your foot, stumbling over to your couch before completely collapsing. It's been a long day; errands and job searching, a few phone calls, and now you're finally able to take a load off. With a deep breath you pick your head up and look around your studio; it's a bit messy, and you groan knowing that if you don't do it nobody else will.

Oh, the joys of living alone.

After slipping off your shoes and taking off your jacket you stand up and tidy the place up a bit, and you even manage to start a load of laundry. When you feel a bit cleaner and decluttered you walk over to your kitchen space. On the island counter you find your laptop, and you move to open it wanting to do one last check in for the day before making dinner and relaxing.

When you open your email, you're welcomed with some spam, some coupons, and one important flagged one. Your brow furrows as you open the flagged mail; skimming it over. It's from this nanny site you registered for, as another option for a job that you wouldn't mind pursuing. The registration had been intense, even a few background checks had to be done, but considering you haven't had a bite in weeks you haven't thought much about it.

Now that there is a bite it feels all very real.

The email is simple; half of it is the host company that goes over the basics of being offered a position with a person in need of a caregiver. The other half is a small message from the person needing assistance, explaining what you'd potentially be doing for them. It's a bit vague and concise, just saying they need to set up an interview session and that you'd be taking care of their three year old

The only thing truly odd about this, is the confidentiality agreement. That and the fact it's paired with the words "high profile job offer". It's like you'd be nannying for the Queen or something.

Your cursor lingers over the confirm interview icon, your finger not clicking it yet. You look over the details only to find few in the first place; the pay is to be determined, the hours are to be determined, and it all seems rather unstable. Still it's the first interview offer you've had in weeks and you're running out of cushion money to live off of, and the last thing you want to ask is your parents for money.

"Fuck it," you mutter into the void as you click the accept button.

You get two pop up options for interview times, and you take the most convent one for you. You write down the time, place, and needed materials to bring on a sticky note before sticking it on the refrigerator. With that out of the way you shut your laptop and move to find something to eat for the night, more than ready to kick back and relax.

///

You park on the curb, letting yourself relax with a deep breath. The place in front of you is nice, a bit more south than where you reside in London, but nice nonetheless. You take in the English ivy that scales some of the brick work, the bright red door, and the cute fencing around the living unit. Other houses around it are similar and equally as compact, but the color schemes and ivy patterns set them apart.

After a moment you glance to the open passenger seat next to you, double checking your folder had everything in it. Your resume, references, certifications, background checks, and so on. You glance down at yourself, checking for anything like toothpaste stains or stray hairs. You even check your email to double check the address you're at is correct.

When you find no other reason to stay in your car you grab the folder and your purse and get out.

You lock your car, using your key because the automatic lock doesn't work anymore. Once your precious car is locked tight you turn on your heel and walk up to the house. Through the front window you see the TV playing a cartoon you're unfamiliar with, but the brightly colored pig on the screen is quite adorable.