How could I not? • Tom Holland

Seven

Words: 3361

Warnings: Lots of talk of adoption. Please don't read if that is a sensitive topic for you and hold back any nasty comments until you read future chapters, thank you!!

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It wasn't really anyone's fault that you forgot there was food in the oven – what, with the gentle tune of the Beatles playing overtop of a chorus of everlasting laughter between the two of you, not to mention the snoring dog in the corner of the room. Something was bound to happen – it was you and Tom, for crying out loud.

"Dance with me,"

Tom says it as a statement, not a question. He wants – no, he needs you to dance with him. He needs to feel his arms wrapped securely around your waist, to feel your feet move in time with his. It was so cliche, really, but Tom lived for cliche.

He was the type of go out of his way to surprise his love with roses on his way home from work, one for every time he'd wanted to send a quick 'I love you' text that day but hadn't been able to. The type to spend hours perfecting the best meal he could muster up and additionally, plate it with a glass of the best wine he could afford. The type to kiss in the rain, if he had the chance.

You open your mouth in protest, the smell of the cheesy pasta dish wafting around the kitchen. "The dinner–"

"Dance with me." Tom all but smiles, words slipping from his mouth with such ease and suddenly you're putty in the palm of his hand. And you don't hesitate to mould into his body, allowing yourself to fall into him.

"Why did you want to dance with me?" You chuckle, leaning your head against him. You give in, allowing Tom to take you wherever he wants to go. That seemed to be nowhere and you find yourself swaying gently in the comfort of the area between the kitchen and the living room.

Tom shrugs his shoulders. "Jus' felt like it."

You hum, breathing in the scent of his cologne. You'd learnt that it was some kind of axe spray that he had cans of hidden around the apartment – such as in the kitchen cupboards and tucked away in his car. The song finishes and a new one begins, one Tom wasn't aware of but the last thing he wants to do is complain about the pre-nineties tune when he has you right there, humming gently along with the lyrics.

Your eyes are closed and you look at peace as he rocks you two back and forth, feet both stuck to the floor as you sway.

His heart beats prominently in his chest and it's nearly impossible not to count every beat. Every beat tells you that he's there with you, reminding you of the fact that you're beyond lucky to have him. And funny enough, Tom was thinking the same about you.

Your peace is short-lived, however, as mere minutes later there's a horrid – god awful smell and you can't even hide your disgust with your face in his chest.

"What's that smell?" Tom mumbles, screwing his nose up.

And you want to ask the same question – before you gasp, eyes widening and you push yourself away from Tom making him stumble back slightly. For a few moments, the brunette stands in confusion before he himself is hit with the realisation.

"The food, Tom, we burnt it!" You exclaim, rushing to the oven. You hardly have time to slip the oven mitt over your hands but that doesn't matter – because the second you open the oven door black smoke drifts out, flooding the kitchen. "Fuck, I told you we were going to burn it." You curse under your breath, resisting the urge to cough as you turn the oven off.

"Sorry, love," Tom says half-heartedly, resisting the urge to laugh at the sight of you looking so frantic. If it weren't for the clouds of smoke painting your kitchen darker hues of grey then he would've laughed. Surely. "Got too distracted, maybe next time I'll listen."