Riding My (t.h. x female reader)

One - Journal (Y)

3.2k, warnings: a wee bit of nervous energy, but mostly generic

summary: you struggle a bit while listening to Tom's confession about having read your journal.

☆

The same day - Early October

"Baaabe?" Tom's persistent voice comes through the open door of his office.

You've been working in here pretty much the whole day, having turned his desk into a full-on workstation for the weekend since you'll be staying over until Monday morning. You have everything you need to work on this essay for uni — a couple of open textbooks as reference, a small pile of notes from class, and your laptop. The very one that Tom gave you for your birthday last year.

The one he insisted you should take, let's be honest. You had a laptop before and it worked just fine. Well, okay, you did have duct tape on at least two corners so it wouldn't fall apart, and there was a curious ghost-shaped crack on the screen after almost a decade of use. It also kept shutting off for no reason other than to test your patience, but all your files were always intact since they were hosted either in your cloud or in the school's servers, so it was fine. There was no point in wasting your precious, albeit paltry, paycheck from the coffee house on campus to repair it or buy a new one.

Except trying to argue with Tom about it was impossible. No matter how many times you said you didn't need it, he came up with an improbable situation for you to lose your dear old laptop — or a falling-to-pieces, due-to-be-pensioned-out dinosaur as he'd called it -- earning a deep scowl from you. That was your baby he was talking about, your first ever laptop that your parents must have gone to hell and back to get for you.

Tom really was insufferable that day, so you rolled your eyes into the back of your head and snatched the handle of the large box off of his hands with a grumble. "Give it here."

And now you're staring at a pristine clear image, no cracks, no flickering, no duct tape anywhere holding Bruce together because your new baby is impeccable.

"Yeah?"

When you look up, Tom is standing by the doorway, one hand tightening around the knob as he crosses one leg over the other at the level of his ankles. He looks... odd, almost out of himself. His face doesn't give much away, but there's a shade of dark in his expression that's quite foreign for him.

"I think I, um..." he starts, eyes glancing down at the object he was twiddling in his hands.

It's your journal. You recognize it at first glance, but decide to play it off, seeming unbothered by going back to writing your notes. Focusing on not biting your lip too hard, you try not to let Tom's lingering hesitation fluster you up too much. Sadly to no avail because your heart goes on a rampage inside your chest.

"Well, uh—"

"What?" you decide to intervene since he's only standing there awkwardly. You stare at him now, pencil in hand, feeling your matted down hair prickling the top of your forehead. The heat radiates from outside through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors to your right, but it's softer now, same as the sunlight that's starting to fade behind the evening clouds.

The weight of the drop of sweat forming on your brow grows heavier as you wonder what he's trying to say, but you wipe it off as casually as possible, listening carefully to his next words.

"I sort of, um, okay, I guess I stumbled upon your journal," he stutters, and you sense a tinge of regret in his voice. It's not common, but you've seen him this vulnerable more times than he probably would like to admit.