TOM
I GROANED loudly as I took a large bite of the pastry, leaning back onto the arm of Y/N's couch and doing a little happy dance with my shoulders because of how good it was. She laughed at me, but I couldn't care less; these are the best bloody pastries in all of London. I gently tossed her my phone to approve which photo she was happy with me posting of her, considering this was 'a big deal' and I didn't want her to feel uncomfortable with my post.
She laughed and chose one of the more discreet photos, one where she was smiling and holding the pastry out and towards the camera, thus concealing half of her face yet still looking casual and nonchalant. Normally, I wouldn't care about what I posted online, lord knows I'm the most social media illiterate person, but like I said before, I wanted her to be okay with this.
I posted multiple photos in one of those like swipey carousel things. The first was of me and my pastry. The second was just the pastries in the box. The third was of Y/N and the last was just the empty box.
Yes. We've finished all of the pastries already.
"Give me caption ideas," I whined.
"Just say something you'd usually say about dumb pastries," Y/N laughed at me, getting off the couch and taking the empty patisserie box to the rubbish bin in the kitchen.
"Can I just write like, 'the best part of going out to dinner is getting dessert on the way home'? Cos it's actually kinda true," I called out, sitting back up straight and yawning.
"Don't ask me Tom, you're the one with tens of millions of followers," she shrugged, sitting down on the couch next to me and leaning over to see me type the caption and press post.
I sighed in relief, knowing that our dumb online relationship debut was now under our control and not the couple we had met earlier in the night. Not that that was bad or anything, I just would rather their post not be blown up larger than it should be.
"So you want to be a writer but to get credibility you're producing... That seems super contradictory considering writers are creative and producers are all hard ass business people," I laughed, crossing one leg over the other to turn towards her.
"Woah, okay we're changing the subject then. Um, I guess it's just the way this industry works. You land work off luck, looks, or you work off knowing the right people. I tried acting but I just look like everyone else so I never really got anywhere," she shrugged.
"You wanted to be an actor?" I smiled.
"Yeah, I actually studied film production as a back up in case my acting career didn't take off... And as you can guess, it never did," she said chuckling in a self-deprecating humour.
"Do you still want to act?" I said slightly frowning and furrowing my eyebrows out of disappointment. She just shook her head, expressing to me that she much prefers the satisfaction of being behind the scenes than in front of a camera.
We spoke about her career in a deeper context, going back to how she got to where she is. And if I'm being honest, this girl never takes a fucking break. She hasn't even taken leave for herself in three years. The longest time off work she's had was eight days when her father died. Eight fucking days.
"So if you're always writing, and I know you are because you're constantly on your laptop, how come you've never pitched to producers and stuff? You obviously have worked with heaps of them, surely they'd read your stuff as a favour," I asked, honestly surprised she hasn't tried.
"They're just not ready yet... I have had millions of ideas in the past but nothing has ever really been the one you know? I'm writing something at the moment but it's nowhere near close to finished... It wouldn't even make sense to anyone if they read it now, it's all just random scenes flowing in my head," she sighed.
"Sorry, stepping back a few steps because you completely glazed over an important fucking detail of your life. You flew home when your Dad died and you only took eight days off work? Jesus Christ Y/N, no wonder you can't write lately. You're completely burning out! You need to take time for from this movie and just let yourself be creative," I persisted.
Y/N laughed it off and asked me how drunk I was, before I told her to piss off and protested I had the same amount of drinks she had over dinner. I asked if I could stay the night, which by looking at the expression on Y/N's face, surprised the hell out of her.
"In the guest room! I don't want to overstep my boundaries. I mean, last time at your Los Angeles place was different because we were both way too drunk and passed out. But I just can't be bothered calling a cab this late," I laughed.
"Yeah, I um, do you need clothes? I have trackies you might fit into?" She said jumping off the couch to get me a glass of water, an aspirin to help the hangover before bed and a blanket off the couch in case I got cold.
"Dude, it's not that cold. I can just sleep in my underwear it's fine. But thanks for all of this," I laughed, stretching my back as I stood up from the couch and yawned. I followed her into the spare room which was next to hers as she set down the water and the small pill on the bedside table.
"If you need anything just wake me up okay? And make yourself at home. Oh and tomorrow for work you can leave from here with me, or without me and go in a seperate car, or you can go home beforehand and change," she rambled, overly concerned about the fact I was staying the night.
Sometimes I think that Y/N still views me as a colleague or a celebrity she works with. Sometimes we get along like best of mates but sometimes she stresses about things friends wouldn't particularly care about. I guess she's still weary of this whole situation.
"Y/N, trust me, everything is fine. I'll get a ride with you tomorrow. Might look good for our 'relationship' if I rock up to work in the same clothes as tonight's dinner 'cos Anya will know and nobody else will," I chuckled, sitting on the bed and smiling at her in the doorway.
"Good night Tom. Remember, if you need anything let me know," she reiterated. Again.
"Oh my god, just go to bed woman! Stop stressing about me, I'm just a normal person. A normal fake boyfriend," I laughed before wishing her goodnight as she turned the light off and closed the door.
Why is she so nervous around me?