Chapter Fifty Three: A Visit From Loki

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You feel Tom's hand tracing circles on your back and you grunt before lifting your head and looking at him.


"Good morning," he beams.

You look at the clock. It's not even six. You shoot him a glare before dropping your head to your pillow.

"Sweetheart. Wake up."

He pokes your side.

"Thomas," you say sternly. "It is five fifty in the morning. I have made it a rule to never get up before six o'clock unless I have a very good reason to."

"I am a very good reason."

You look at him and narrow your eyes. "Not good enough. You can wait ten minutes."

"I can't believe you just said I wasn't good enough!" he scoffs.

"Couldn't you have just let me sleep for a little while longer? I'm on vacation."

"But I'm hungry."

"What am I supposed to do about it? Order room service."

"No. Let's go have breakfast."

"Tooom," you groan, rolling onto your back.

"Bea. You're going back to London today. I would like to spend as much time with you as possible."

He begins to crawl on top of you.

"Tom, the baby," you warn.

"I know," he says, resting on your upper thighs rather than your abdomen, which is where he usually sits.

You glare up at him as he grasps your hands and gives you puppy dog eyes.

"Thomas William Hiddleston Senior. Get off of me," you scold.

He frowns. "Senior? You've never used that before."

"Maybe I'll start calling you by your full name when I'm angry with you."

"But senior makes me sound so old," he whines.

"You are old," you grin.

"Hey now. Be nice. If I'm old, so are you."

"Uh-uh. I'm younger than you."

"By a few years!"

You shrug and try to push him off of you again.

"Tom! Move it!"

"Are you going to get up?"

"I can't feel my legs," you complain.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you need to get off."

He leans forward so that he's almost lying on top of you. His face is inches from yours and you catch the scent of the hotel soap. You make your eyes go wide and feign a look of panic.

"I'm going to throw up!"

Tom's off you in a flash and you chuckle as you roll over, pulling the blankets tightly around you.

"I thought you had to throw up."

"Acting, dear."

"You're going to be the death of me."

You giggle before Tom's arm wraps around you and he presses himself against your back. He kisses your temple and squeezes you tight.


"Shh. Wait until six o'clock," you mumble.

It's quiet for a few more minutes. You can tell he's watching the clock, waiting for the numbers to switch to six-zero-zero.

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