Tom Holland & Peter Parker Imagines & Preferences (book 2)

Nice to meet you

Small one again

"W-what?"

Tom had to laugh a little, his face contorting into a look of confusion. She had to be joking. Was she trying to make him mad? Was she just being childish?

"What?" She asked, even more, confused than she was when he came up to her, talking about how long it'd been since they'd seen each other.

"What did you just say?"

"I just—I said... nice to meet you? I'm sorry, did I... did I say something wrong?" Eileen couldn't read his face. His eyes looked at her so intensely, she was afraid she'd turn to stone. They looked like they'd been hollowed out and replaced by a storm. "I'm sorry," she spoke up again, realizing that he wasn't going to, "I'm horrible with names. Have we... have we met? Maybe at the café? I work there—the one about two blocks from here. I work weekdays and Sundays, in the morning. Except for Sundays. Sundays I close. You a night owl?" She asked, not realizing how much she was talking. Part of her hoped the more she spoke, the less freaked out he'd be.

"Are you fucking joking?" Tom asked—not in a mean or hard way. It sort of came out as one breath. He took in her appearance—overalls over a long-sleeve and a pair of her infamous Timberlands.

"Excuse me?" She asked, her eyes narrowing. "Listen, dude, I don't know who you are, and I tried to be nice, but you don't get to talk to me like that." Her voice rose a little at the end, her nerves getting the best of her as she tried to suppress her annoyance.

Tom didn't react to her tone, just stood there motionlessly staring at her. He reached a handover, his fingers skimming the back of her hand before she pulled away. He shook his head, bringing his right hand up to his left arm and pinching himself, hard. He inhaled a painful breath, rubbing the spot.

All she could think was, This guy is fuckin' crazy.

"Listen," Eileen mumbled, shaking her head at this random, crazy guy who just continued to stare at her, taking a couple of steps back, "I think you've got the wrong person. Maybe I just look like your girl, but it isn't me." She waited for him to say something, apologize or tell her she was wrong and that he did know her—but, he didn't. He just stood there. "Alright," she mumbled, turning around and walking away.

Tom watched her walk off. His heart was beating so slow he would've been afraid it'd given up on him had he not just been replaying what the fuck just happened in his head four-hundred times. He just couldn't stop asking that one question.

How does someone you were in love with for three years, not remember who the fuck you are?