SEVEN: Little Lies (Y)
---
With a sigh, you pull up the hem of your turtleneck, grimacing at your reflection in the mirror. You're in a high-rise in central New York, standing in the centre of a very luxurious bathroom in your management's regional headquarters. With New York Fashion Week on the horizon, you've been brought in for a brainstorming session with your team. That means you're buzzed up on caffeine, and you're stressed, trying to disguise the bruised hickeys Tom had left all over you.
No matter how hard you try to tuck them away beneath layers of flaky makeup and your best scarves, you feel the marks, aching. Sometimes you pass your fingers over them, just to feel connected to him. It's a little sad, really. Tom is thousands of miles away from you, and you're clinging onto the memories of him like sand that pours through your fingers.
It's safe to say you're a little affected by your time in London.
You clear your throat, passing the stick of your lip gloss over your lower lip. With slightly shaky hands, you're quick to pack your things away and exit the bathroom. Despite the early morning hour, the floor is alight - buzzing with PAs, and talent scouts, and managers - and they all seem to part for you as you make the long, dreaded walk to the largest conference room in the building. Someone hands you a steaming cup of tea, but not even that can cheer you up - if anything, the reminder of London, and him, and him, and him, makes your mood worse.
"Ahh, finally decided to join us, Y/N."
You roll your eyes as you look at Rebecca, your PR manager. She's messing you around - a large, teasing smirk on her face as she holds court at the top of the oval table. She gestures with a sweeping, manicured hand at the collection of assistants and strategists, most of whom you've never seen before, but look at you like you're royalty.
"Sorry," you mutter. "Traffic."
You take a seat quickly, your fingers pulling up your turtleneck. You hope desperately that it hides the deep blemishes, but you know that's mostly wishful thinking: Tom did a very, very thorough number on your neck, and it lingers on even a week later.
"It's fine. We've just been discussing the plans for next week." Someone slides a folder towards you, and you start to flick through the pages, the sheets of paragraphed information drifting past your tired eyes. "You've got a busy schedule, Y/N. Even busier now Tom's agreed to come for it, too."
Your eyes widen, and you look up to her. "What?"
Rebecca gives you a tight smile. "I know, I know. You hate him, I'm sorry, but the PR opportunity was too good to pass by. If you're seen together, wearing designer sets at the shows, it'll do wonders-"
"I don't hate him," you cut in, suddenly feeling a powerful urge to make that obvious. Rebecca raises an eyebrow, and you flounder. "Uh- yeah, uh, I mean... Yeah. That sounds good."
"Okay?" Rebecca's got her eyes narrowed, and you watch her biceps flex as she crosses her arms over her chest. She's always been able to see right through you. "It didn't take any convincing to get Tom on board, either." She phrases it as an observation, but you feel the question beneath it nonetheless.
"Yeah, we, uh, are friends now." You look away, trailing your fingers down the side of a piece of paper. "What are you getting us to do?"
The conversation spins on for half an hour, and the team brief you on all the press engagements that you're expected to attend. They book you in for fittings and hair appointments and jewellery selections, and it's starting to feel quite exciting until the meeting ends and Rebecca requests you stay behind.
As everyone else filters from the room, Rebecca sits forward, placing her chin in her hands as she looks at you, hard.
"Y/N, you know I care for you," she starts. Her eyes are on your neck, and you feel your pulse spike. "But I'm worried."
"Worried?" You laugh nervously, your palms feeling slick. "Why?"
She sighs. "As vexing as it's been to deal with your feud with Tom in the past, I'm concerned about this situation." She pauses, arching an eyebrow. "How do you feel about him, now?"
Your throat feels dry, but you manage a tight little, "He's nice."
Rebecca seems to change her approach. Her features soften, and her voice lifts. "Tom's kind, isn't he? Quite funny, too."
Your lips quirk into a smile reflexively, and you nod. "He's lovely," you find yourself saying. Your heart races in your chest, your eyes becoming unfocused and blurry as your mind takes you on a trip down memory lane.
You think of London. Of Tom's house. Of the evenings you spent lounging around in his living room with him and Harrison, more often than not sharing a blanket with Tom as you watched films and bad TV together. You think of all the cups of tea Tom had brought you - it'd sort of become a habit, that he'd wake you up with a steaming mug and a kiss on the forehead each morning. You're reminded of how he'd greet you every night, when you staggered home, exhausted from press, the way he'd wrap you up in his arms and hold you close. The warmth in your heart burns - it burns almost painfully.
"Tom is... He's a really decent guy, you know? He loves his family, he's good with his dog. He... He cares. And he's so passionate, too, about everything." You're rambling, you know you're rambling, but it feels so nice to get it off your chest that you can't stop yourself. "He cares about me, too. Maybe not at first, but he does now. He's a lovely guy, Rebecca, and I-" You break off, feeling a lump at the back of your throat. "I'm glad that I've had the chance to know him."
Rebecca drums her pen over the table, looking at you with cold, concerned eyes.
"Is Tom the one who gave you all those hickeys, too?" When your eyes widen, she scoffs. It's not unkind, but you can feel the disapproval. "Y/N, you're playing a very, very dangerous game. The contract expires in ten weeks. We're already outlining your breakup." Rebecca groans. "I'm glad you're getting along with him. I'm so, so glad that you've mended your fractured relationship. But do not let yourself believe that any of this is real." She pauses, seeing the tears in your eyes. "In ten weeks, he'll be gone. And yes - yes, of course, it'll be an amicable breakup - but you won't be able to see him. Not for a while, at least. In ten weeks, this will all be over."
Your fingers are clenched into fists, and there's a tightness in your chest that feels horrible.
"But what if it is real?" You dare to ask. You look up at her with uncertain eyes, your gaze wobbling. "What if it... What if it's not just a lie, Rebecca?"
She releases a deep breath, her eyebrows furrowed tightly together. "Well, how do you feel, Y/N? Is it a fling, or is it deeper? Do you love him?" Her lips fall into an o. "For the love of god, don't tell me that you love him now."
You don't love him. There's no way that you love him.
There's no universe in which it makes sense that somewhere, in the three weeks you spent at Tom's house, you fell in love with him. It can't possibly be true. You haven't spent three years of your life despising Tom Holland to fall at his feet in a measly twenty-one days. To do so would be a betrayal of all of your past experiences. You haven't.
Because maybe... Maybe, you've been in love with him for far longer than that. There's a possibility that a little piece of you has regarded him fondly since the first night you met, through the arguments and the fights and the insults. Maybe you've loved him for years.
"No, of course not," you lie. You rub at your eyes, tired and stinging. "I'm just saying that it's possible I- I have a bit of a crush, or something." Suddenly you feel uncomfortable, and you realise it's possible that your PR manager does not have your best interests at heart. "It's fine. Everything is fine." You stand up quickly, throwing a tight smile her way. "If that's all, I'll be on my way."
"That's everything." Rebecca pauses, and the look she directs towards you makes you shiver. "Do not forget that Tom is an actor, darling. Don't get caught up in the act. Don't lose yourself in this."
You turn away quickly, not wanting her to see the tear that spills from your eye and rolls sadly down your cheek.
---
You're lonely in New York, and as Fashion Week begins, you find yourself anticipating Tom's visit more than you probably should. Your contact with him has been constant. The time difference is annoying, but it ensures you wake up each morning with a text from him, and you find yourself anticipating his messages each night before you fall asleep.
You can't help but think that you made a terrible decision back in London, on your final night. Things with Tom had been going so well, but then you'd realised that time was running out, and you'd be leaving in the morning, and it'd spooked you. Add in a very confusing conversation you'd had with Harrison, in which he'd spilt the beans that Tom, too, didn't want you to leave, and your mind had gotten muddled.
Tom was just sitting there, doodling over your shoes, tongue between his teeth, humming softly. Tom, covered in a hoodie, with his brown curls a lovely delightful mess. He'd started talking about kissing you, and you'd felt such a pressing, overwhelming desire to have him that it had taken over. He'd been giving you the right signals for days, and maybe you were emboldened by the fact that you'd be leaving in the morning. Maybe the fact you'd be gone within twelve hours had pushed you to take it further. You'd found yourself proposing something crazy:
The one-night stand. The one-night stand, which had ended with Tom cuddling you all night, and kissing you when you'd both woken up the following morning, and again in the kitchen, and again in the car when he'd dropped you off at the airport - no paparazzi around. The one-night stand, which you'd suggested, foolishly, because you found yourself craving, so desperately, intimacy with him in whichever form you could snag it.
It'd been a poor decision, though. Suggesting a meaningless fling with someone who meant so much to you was setting yourself up for failure because you'd just been kidding yourself as you'd rolled around with him. Tom had kissed you, held you, looked after you - and it was so overwhelming that you'd cracked. The moment you'd finished, you ran out of his room and collapsed over the bathroom sink, crying. You'd known, a mere two seconds after, that the one-night stand was dumb, and you're dumb, and he's dumb, because you love him.
You don't love him.
You do love him.
You don't love him.
It's been playing on loop for days, weeks, months. You don't know exactly how you feel, but you know that you need him by your side to even stand a chance at figuring it out - which is why you're so relieved to walk into your apartment halfway through Fashion Week and find Tom standing there, leaning up against his suitcase, smiling at you.
"You're here!" You exclaim, eyes wide. You kick the door shut behind you, dropping your bag to the floor as you hurry to kick off your tall boots. "I didn't think you'd be arriving for a few more hours."
Tom meets you in the middle, chuckling as you launch yourself at him. He hugs you tightly, warm hands moving all over your back, and you sigh contentedly.
"Thought I'd surprise you, love," he murmurs. The ease in which his lips curl around the pet name makes you smile. "How have you been?" Tom pulls back, hands holding your waist. He looks so warm today - his biceps large and defined, his face bright. The scent of his cologne is deep and familiar.
"Great," you say, speaking the lie before you've had time to consider it. "How long has it been? A couple of weeks now? Your hair..." Your hands move around his neck, fingertips playing with his longer chestnut strands. "You look really well."
Tom's teeth peek out as he smiles at you, his fingers warm on your body. You feel alive again - energised, hot, as if you've spent too long touching an electrified rod. Every nerve ending is on fire, rippling with tension and excitement.
"Too long," he says, and you hum in agreement. "Thanks, though. Apparently, the long hair makes me look sophisticated, or something." One of his hands moves up to your cheek, and he holds it softly. "I missed you, darling."
You smile almost shyly. "We called every day."
"Not the same." Tom tilts his head to the side. "Don't lie to me, Y/N," he teases, "I know you missed me too."
You release a short noise of amusement, and step nearer, burying your head in the crook of his warm neck. You can't deny the way your heart pulses in your chest, feeling light as he curls his arms further around you.
"Yeah," you admit. You smile into his skin as one of his hands cradles the back of your head, holding you softly. "Missed you tons, Tom."
---
It's the final evening of Fashion Week, characterised by flashing cameras, crowds of journalists, and lines of expensive designer clothing. After spending a painstaking amount of time being dressed up and made over, you step out of a slick limousine and onto the vibrant red carpet. Your eyes sting as they adjust to the scenes ahead. You're at Ralph Lauren's closing show, and as a brand ambassador, you're required to spend a few minutes walking along the carpet, talking with some journalists. That means, as your date, Tom is also in attendance.
"I know I've already told you, but you look incredible tonight."
Tom's at your side a mere second after you step from the limo, clad in a suit that matches your own. They've got you both in some lovely deep green tones, adorned with touches of gold.
"I'm just glad I finally don't have to wear a dress," you mutter. Your fingers go down to the hem of your suit jacket. "It's cute that they have us matching, though."
The outfits you're wearing are almost identical but styled a little differently. Where Tom's fits the traditional dimensions, your suit sweeps down, with a slightly daring neckline coupled with some bold gold jewellery. You're in heels, he's in some pointy shoes, but it's so clear you're matching it's almost funny. Part of you wants to ask to keep the suits so that you'll have a good costume for any couples Halloween parties you decide to go to.
"I like you in a suit," he murmurs. He's got his hand on your waist, and together you start along the carpet. "Makes you seem powerful."
"Thank you," you reply. You glance around, looking at the line of journalists. Cameras are flashing, but you're glad it's a closed event as that means the numbers are limited. Paparazzi have forced you into enough uncomfortable positions before, especially with Tom. "Do you want to start over here?" You gesture towards a lone journalist, standing with wide eyes.
"Sure."
The first few interviews go well. You like the feeling of Tom's arm around you, enjoy the scent of his cologne as it wafts over you as you hum and ahh and respond to the intricate questions from the journalists, who are all clearly working off a script set out by the brand. They stay on topic, and you talk easily about fabrics and films, with Tom chipping in from time to time with some funny comments. You find your eyes catching on him frequently, enjoying the way his eyes scrunch up whenever he smiles particularly widely.
However, the final journalist on the carpet decides to go a little off-piste, clearly bored by the repetitive nature of the press briefing.
"So nice to meet you both, Y/N, Tom." The man is in a jaunty hat, and his glasses glint beneath the bright lights of the carpet. "How are you both doing? Enjoying Fashion Week?"
"It's been great," you reply, smiling widely. "I've had a lovely time."
Tom nods, and he's so close that you feel his hair brushing up against yours. "Likewise, really. I've not been here for the full event, but it's certainly been an interesting experience being involved with something like this." He pauses, and you feel his eyes briefly shift to you. "It's been an honour to walk the carpet with someone as talented and beautiful as Y/N."
Your eyes widen, and you turn to look at him, slightly surprised by such an unprompted compliment. You find Tom looking at you, his lovely brown eyes deep with admiration.
The journalist hums thoughtfully, breaking the moment. "Do you mind if I ask you a few personal questions?" He asks eagerly.
"Go ahead," you respond, still a little disarmed by the way Tom's looking at you, his eyes on your lips.
"Y/N, didn't you once say that Tom was the, uh, 'most insufferable man in Hollywood'?"
That gets your attention.
"- I was just wondering how you've both navigated your relationship. It's not a secret that you both harboured some very serious and intense feelings of animosity for the another. Has it been hard facing scrutiny?"
You let a deep breath roll past your lips and turn back to the reporter. Tom's hand on your side feels a little looser.
"I did say that, yeah," you admit, remembering the absolute bollocking you'd received from Rebecca in response. "I think we've all probably said some things that we've come to regret."
"Ahh, of course. Tom, too, I'm sure you regret some of the things you've said about Y/N." You feel your heart clench, and you want to tell the journalist to stop and change the subject, but he's too intent of reading off the notepad in his hands. "Didn't you once say that you thought Y/N was, um, 'the most two-faced actress you'd ever met'?" The journalist quotes it back monotonously, but all you can hear are the words, ringing back in your ears, lilted with Tom's voice, Tom's tone.
"Well, as Y/N said, I think we're all capable of saying things we don't necessarily mean." Tom's voice is a little strained, a little curt. You can feel him looking at you, but you turn away, trying to discreetly put some distance between you. "We're happy together, so I think we'll go ahead and move on now, mate. Thanks."
You're grateful that the man was the last journalist because it feels as though you're pulled tight with nerves, gripping strongly to each part of you. You're quick to walk into the large building, feeling the air conditioning sweep over you as you let Tom's arm fall away from your side. You can feel him watching you as you take a few steps away from him, not entirely knowing what to say.
It's awkward. It's so painfully awkward that it drives a wedge of pain into your heart when you finally meet his eyes.
"That was, uh, fun," Tom offers up. He winces a smile at you, and you grit your teeth.
"Yeah," you mutter. A passing waiter approaches you both, and you eagerly pick up a flute of champagne and toss it back, feeling the bubbles tickle your throat. "Fun."
You don't know if you're more hurt or embarrassed. You know it's a bad idea to linger on comments made years ago, but it stings to remember that Tom thought that of you, and it burns to remember how horrible you'd been to him.
Standing across from him now, you're reminded of how unbalanced and unfriendly your relationship had initially been.
"We should go into the show," Tom says, breaking the tense silence between you. He runs a hand through his styled hair, displacing the strands, messing it up.
"You're right."
Tom offers you a hand, and you take it, bridging the gap between you with cold fingers.
---
For the entire show, you're sitting nervously beside Tom. You can't enjoy it - can't get lost in the models or the outfits or the music. You've got the words of the journalist in your head now, and also the added worry of what Tom's thinking. You can't tell if he's annoyed with you - he's sitting beside you, knees bouncing anxiously, his hands in his pockets. You don't say anything for what feels like hours, and even as you move out into the afterparty at an upscale bar, things between you are rigid. You feel as though you're treading on eggshells, not wanting to break the silence, dredge up an awkward conversation.
In the end, Tom bites the bullet.
"Do you want to get out of here?" He asks you, whispering into your ear. You're in the back corner of the bar, feeling frazzled and tired. "There's a rooftop garden. It's pretty cool."
You nod. "Absolutely."
On your way out of the bar, Tom stops, his grip on your hand drawing you to a halt too. When you turn to face him, he grins at you, looks around at the swarms of distracted people, and then reaches up to the bar, grabs an unopened bottle of champagne, and snatches it.
"Go, go, go," he mutters, and you laugh as he quickly drags you across the room, trying to inconspicuously appear to have not stolen a bottle of very expensive-looking champagne. You manage to grab two clean glasses from a table on your way out, and you're both laughing in the elevator on the way up to the roof. "This looks pretty fancy," Tom remarks, peering at the label on the bottle curiously.
You lean against the mirrored wall, looking at him with amusement in your eyes. "Didn't take you as a thief, Holland," you tease.
"Eh." He shrugs, the tips of his teeth glinting as he smiles at you. "Not really stealing when it's an open bar, is it?"
"Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night."
There's an end to your conversation as the doors slide open, revealing the skyline sight of New York City at midnight.
"That's a view that's never going to get old," you mutter, walking out as if entranced. There doesn't seem to be anyone else about on the roof, and you're free to walk forward to the railing at the edge of the roof. You lean against it, sighing, folding your chin into your hand as you look at the flickering lights of the city. The air is alight with noise - cars, laughter, conversation - and it makes you feel calm.
There's a loud pop, followed by a strangled, "Fucking shit."
Turning around, your eyes widen as you see Tom folded over, rubbing furiously at his forehead. The champagne bottle overflows with bubbles, and you can't stop yourself from laughing.
"What did you do?" You muse, concerned as you walk over to him. You put the glasses down on a table before taking the bottle from Tom's hands, grimacing as you get the frothy bubbles on your fingers. You shake off the trails before placing your hands on Tom's shoulders, carefully righting him.
"Fucking cork tried to take me out," Tom mutters, eyebrows furrowed. He looks up at you, wide-eyed and grimacing. "It hurts," he whines.
"Looks like it," you mutter. He's got a big red mark on his forehead, and you pad your fingers over it gently, apologising when he grimaces. "Get well soon," you add. He looks so soft, and inviting, with his mouth rolled out into an adorable pout, and you find yourself leaning in to kiss the mark without really giving it a second thought. The rest of Tom's face bursts into flame, too.
"Thanks." His eyes swing around your face, and his lips relax into a fond smile. "I think we need to chat about some things," he says, slowly.
You feel your stomach drop, instantly overthinking the kiss on the forehead. "Oh, sorry," you say, eyes wide. "That was probably really weird when I kissed your head, I-"
"No, no, that was sweet." Tom's chuckling, shaking his head. One of his hands goes to your shoulder, and he gives you a soothing pat. "The carpet, earlier."
You sigh. "Ahh. Yes." You look across the rooftop, seeing two sun loungers a few metres away. "There?"
You make camp on the reclining seats, but instead of leaning back and relaxing on them, you and Tom sit on them sideways, facing one another in the middle. The champagne lies on the table between you, but both of you decide to hold fire on the consumption so you can have a clear, level-headed discussion.
"So," Tom says, clasping his hands together. "It feels like we've sort of avoided talking about some things. Would you say that that's fair?"
You nod. You can think of twenty topics off the top of your head that you've avoided discussing around Tom, and you've felt your history suspended above you both for the entirety of the time you've been getting closer to him. Maybe it's time to clear the air.
"That's fair," you agree, swallowing down your nerves. "We never really talked about our past."
Tom hums, then falls silent. There's a tense few seconds of eye contact, and you can feel the discomfort in him as he grimaces.
"I'm sorry if I was a twat when I won the BAFTA," he says slowly, his accent seeping into his voice. Tom runs a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to rub it in your face, but I was mad because you'd never replied to any of my texts, and I thought that meant you thought you were better than me. I was a dick, and I'm sorry. You're very talented."
Tom's honesty takes you off-guard, but you feel your heart swell.
"It's okay," you breathe out. You give him a tight smile. "It was a bad first impression, and it rubbed me the wrong way, but it was a poor move on my part to have ignored your texts. I was just busy..." You wince. "I'm sorry that I retaliated by going on Ellen and saying I hated your depiction of Spider-Man." You bury your head in your hands, shame rocketing through you. "I was petty, and I shouldn't have been."
"It hurt my feelings," Tom admits. "I cared about your opinion back then, even if I didn't show it. Harrison's my best mate, and it was a bit of a knife in the back to have one of his friends say that about me." He trails off. "So, in return, I didn't invite you to Harrison's surprise birthday party. I'm sorry."
You chuckle, rolling your eyes. "That was a dick move," you agree. "But I get it. It's okay. I'm sorry for everything else I said about you, too. Even the Spider-Man stuff..." You trail off, looking away from him. "I made up most of it, just to spite you. I like your Peter Parker, and you're one of the kindest men in Hollywood, Tom, even if you never showed me that side to you."
"I'm sorry too." Tom reaches out, offering you a hand, and you take it. His palm is warm in yours. "I said so many horrible things about you, love." His eyes are downcast, reflecting guilt you know all too well. "I think I just liked getting a reaction out of you, but it was all so childish."
"It's in the past now." Your lips quirk into a tight smile. "I think as long as we both know that that isn't how we still feel, we can move on, right?"
"Definitely." Tom squeezes your hand. Your smile grows wider, and you nudge your shoe against his.
"I'm glad that we got forced into doing this together, because it's been nice working through this stuff with you, Tom. It's... It's been nice to call you a friend."
Tom reaches out for the champagne and pours out two glasses, offering you up one. "Friends?" He asks, smiling. "Real friends?"
You take the glass and cheers it against his, grinning. "Of course." Only once you've downed a few gulps do you realise how much it aches your heart to think about your relationship platonically, but that's soon overwhelmed by the relief that comes with shedding the weight of your baggage. "We're just too similar," you comment, finally sitting back against the chair. You stretch your feet out in front of you and look out across the city, musing as you unwind. "Harrison was right. Always told me we'd get along if we just had a decent conversation."
"Eh, well Harrison's a twat about a lot of things, but he wasn't wrong there."
You laugh softly, sipping at your bubbles. "Did you spend a lot of time in New York when you were filming Spider-Man?"
The conversation takes off from there, and you chat with Tom freely as you work on the bottle together. It's nice to talk to him - to hear his dialect, to bask in the presence of his warm, gentle words. With every laugh he coaxes from you, it makes your heart beat a little stronger.
"-Yeah, so, that's basically it. The whole school thought I was the weirdest transfer student ever." Tom finishes his story about the time he'd gone undercover at a local science school to do research for Peter Parker.
"You're such a liar, Tom," you scold, glaring playfully at him. "I don't know if I should believe a word that comes out of your mouth."
He grunts, raising an eyebrow. "Well, was it lying, or was it acting, darling?"
Was it lying, or was it acting..?
Your tipsy mind plays over those words, and you're brought back to the conference room with Rebecca. You look at Tom, watching him stare out at the city with lights in his eyes, and it makes your heart ache. You can't read him. You can't tell what's real, where he draws the distinctions, where anything starts and stops. Because he'd held you after your one-night stand, and he'd kissed you in the car, but that might not mean anything. Not in your artificial world of cameras and lies.
It would be so simple just to ask him. You've been exchanging truths all evening, what's one more?
"Tom," you say slowly. "Can I ask you something?"
He looks around at you, brown eyes dark and intense. "Yeah?"
The words are on the tip of your tongue, but you can't quite get them out. Not when things are still fragile. Not when there's still scaffolding around your friendship.
A shiver passes down your spine, and you grab onto it as a segue. "Can I, um, hug you? It's cold." You get the words out with a wince, immediately regretting not taking your shot to admit your heart's predicament.
Tom looks surprised, but he nods. "'Course, love." He opens up his arms. "Always here to warm you up."
You put down your glass and rise from the lounger, walking the few paces over to Tom. You'd assumed he'd just let you sit beside him, but he surprises you by tugging on your wrist and positioning you so you're lying on top of him, his arms around you tightly.
"Thanks," you say, instantly feeling warmer. Tom's got his hands moving over your back, and you press your cheek to his chest. "You're always so... affectionate."
Tom halts his movements, and you frown. "Oh, sorry, I can... I can stop, if you want."
"No, no." You peer up at him, looking at him softly. From this near, with your face suspended above his and his hands on your sides, you can see every detail on his face - his freckles, the lines of his wonky nose, his adorable ruffled eyebrow. Your heart pangs. "I like it."
"I like you."
You suck in a breath, uncertain of how to take it, but then one of Tom's hands slides up to your face, and you sit up a little straighter. He pushes your hair around softly, and you glance down at his lips, taking note of how warm and inviting they look. You want to kiss him, you want to kiss him so desperately it almost hurts.
Tom leans in, and you meet him in the middle, kissing him gently. His hand slips down to your face, cupping your cheek with his warm fingers, keeping you close as your lips meet, again and again, in small, teasing kisses that make you smile. Your fingers settle in his hair, playing with the strands as you kiss him, savouring every moment, every sensation. His lips are warm and slightly chapped, but you cling to them, sticking like honey.
It feels different. With the weight of your relationship left behind, the kisses feel freer. Truer. It grows in heat and Tom sits up, his tongue slipping into your mouth as you sit back on his thighs, straddling his legs as you wrap your arms around his neck.
You feel like a giddy teenager, drunk off stolen kisses, but it's so nice to be held by Tom that you let yourself enjoy it. For the first time, you forget about your reservations - about Rebecca and the expiration date. You enjoy Tom, enjoy the feeling of him kissing you like he loves you, holding you like you're his world.
"What... What was that for?" Tom mutters, pulling back after several minutes. His lips are puffy, but he's grinning at you, forehead pressed to yours.
You shrug. "Because I wanted to?" You throw out, smiling. "For practise? To keep up the rouse?"
Tom pulls you impossibly closer, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "Do you want to keep practising?"
You bite your lip, nodding immediately. "Practise makes perfect."
And maybe it's ill-advised, and only serves to confuse your heart further, but you collapse into Tom's arms, and you enjoy every single second of his mouth pressed to yours. With one of his hands on your face and the other on your waist, it feels like coming home. There's such a fondness in your heart that you know, finally, the truth:
You love him. You love Tom Holland, with every inch of your soul. You are head over heels, heartbreakingly in love with him.
"Are you okay?" Tom mumbles against you, his voice muffled by your lips.
"Yeah," you respond, smiling widely. He doesn't need to know - not yet. For now, you're content with the clarity of an open heart. "Never been better."