The Only Exception - {TOM HOLLAND}

F O U R

"Fuck me!" You yelp, reeling back and cradling your left foot.

On the ground is a single red Lego brick, stark against the dark wood flooring. It got you right below your big toe, biting at the soft flesh there. The stinging is fading, and the shock drains out of you. You hear Tom walk over, his brows drawn up in concern.

"Maybe after a few dates first," he teases when he sees the Lego.

You roll your eyes, smiling nonetheless, ignoring the fluttering in your stomach, "shut up you dork."

It's late, Ezra having gone to bed about an hour ago. Playtime had been messier than usual, and Tom had joined in the fun as well so clean up duty's been a slow but steady process. Blankets and couch cushions are splayed about, toys are scattered—a lot of them taken from the playroom out into the living room, and the TV remote is lost in the mess as well.

It's been a long day.

"It's not very nice to call your boss names (Y/N)," Tom points out.

"It's not very nice to make a move on your employee Tom," you bite back.

Tom's face turns red, the flush going all the way up to the tips of his ears, and his laughs nervously, "touché."

The past few weeks have been beneficial, getting to know and understand Tom and his personality, and the joking around has only been getting worse in the best way possible.

You smile and continue to clean up the mess. It's a slow process, mostly because everything has its place and you want to make sure it's all there. Tonight is Tom's last night in the UK, in the morning he flies with Harrison to the states to start filming the movie. The last thing you want is for him to leave with the house a mess, worrying about that over Ezra who'll probably have a meltdown at the very idea of his father leaving.

Tom needs to be a hundred percent tomorrow, and a messy house shouldn't hinder him.

Of course, he helps when he can, but he's mostly finishing packing. A week or so beforehand, he had come home with a large shopping back as well as a brand new gigantic suit case. The thing could probably hold everything your apartment has in it and still have room.

When you finally finish up you collapse onto the couch, a yawn leaving your mouth while your feet ache in protest. By laying down you realize that you're rather hungry, having picked at dinner mostly. You get up, not wanting to get too comfortable yet, and walk to the kitchen. The littlest drawer in the kitchen, mostly where random bits and bobs go, has all the take-out delivery menus stocked.

It's clear that some are for Tom, some are kid friendly, and some are more of Harrison's taste.

You riffle through them until you find a menu that appeals to you, and you flip through it trying to figure out wish dish you want. Before you call you walk down the hall into Tom's room, focusing on the specials on the menu as you enter.

"Hey, do you want something?" You ask, holding up the menu.

Tom pauses on packing, looking up at you with tired eyes.

"I'm paying," you add.

"With the money I pay you," Tom chuckles, "but no thanks. I'm not super hungry."

That's weird. Tom's always hungry.

"You okay?" You ask, crossing your arms casually.

The guy pauses, his hands gripping one of his shirts he has yet to fold. There is a tension in his posture you haven't seen before, and it flows all the way up to his eyes; he looks sad for a lack of a better term. Knowing that it makes your heart do something funny in your chest as your own mood dips as well. You don't say anything—although you want to prod and fix and care for him—because this seems like something he should say on his terms.