How could I not? • Tom Holland

Four

Words: 5.3k

Warnings: Angst. It gets a little heated near the end but nothing too smutty.

Disclaimer: There's some trouble between the reader and her parents in this & I know that everybody's parents are different, but for the sake of the storyline !!!! 

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"Are you sure about this?"

Tom was close compared to how distant his voice seemed. In fact, he was right there next to you, pouring exactly four drinks. But while two were filled with wine – red and chilly, cold beneath his bare fingertips, two of them contained soda. It was orange soda to be exact, your favourite and you wondered if it was a coincidence that Tom had picked it up on the way over.

Orange soda, the colour of stale Cheetos or carrot tops. The colour of the screwed up shirt in the bottom of your wardrobe and the plastic forks you made sure not to give to your parents tonight.

"I'm not. I'm nowhere near sure about this." You admit, tasting the fear on the tip of your tongue as you speak. However, fear was always there lately, a sickly permanent taste. You'd think you'd get used to it after a while but you were yet to.

God, of fucking course you weren't sure about this. There were a hundred and one things you weren't sure about right now and this was one of them. It made your heart race and palms sweat like there was no tomorrow and not even your loving cat hadn't dared to come near you all night.

You thought about the fact that you'd rather be working right now because surely that'd be less anti-climactic then what was about to happen and for once you wanted anticlimactic. Lately, all your life had been was climatic and if it were a story, it would've been one giant cliffhanger.

"We have to tell them and besides, you haven't seen my mum in ages. She loves you." You put on a brave front but beneath that, you were beyond terrified. It didn't take much to see that. It took Tom, that was all it took. It took just Tom to see that.

Tom tilts his head, a gentle blush taking place on pasty cheeks. But it was easily hidden by the dim, kitchen lighting.

"She won't after tonight." He admits.

You agree silently.

The smell of freshly roasted potatoes frolics around the kitchen, fighting with the scent of gravy and a stirfry that Tom had attempted to make before you took over. The boy could bake like his life depended on it, from breakfast goods that warmed your heart and reminded you of home to stuffed, Oreo brownies but he surely couldn't cook savoury dishes.

There were four plates laying in front of you, each with a fork and knife set neatly beside them. Maybe you'd been a tad pedantic about it, making sure that the cutlery was perfectly straight and the drink had gone in the fridge had gone in hours earlier than needed so that it would chill in time. There had been a timer for the potatoes and you'd kept a close eye on the vegetables, you'd also turned the fire on earlier. It crackled quietly in the corner of the room, red shadows illuminating the walls and the cat lays tiredly mere meters away.

While you'd been doing that, Tom had taken up the task of cleaning your living room. He had vacuumed and cleaned up lifeless rugs, stacked books and even watered plants. Then he complained about the number of dirty mugs you had laying around. Up until now, at least. Because now, he watches you tap one foot against the floor of your kitchen which barely fit the two of you, letting out short huffs of breath as your eyes watch the clock on the wall just across from either of you.