by Anna Todd
You don’t object or protest. Probably because you are half-asleep, and he is warm and nice and you love him. The last thing you remember is the feeling of fingers playing with your hair.
“LOVE?” YOU HEAR THE WHISPER, and then a laugh that isn’t his.
Wait. What?
“See you Thursday, Tom.” The voice is faint and moving away, and you know that it’s Luke.
“Bye.” Tom’s quiet, then there’s that hot breath on your ear again. “Love, wake up.”
What are you lying on? Whatever it is, it’s very warm and soft.
He sighs. “Roger, can you take us to her apartment building? I don’t want her driving like this.”
You hear a door slam closed and a chuckle. “Yeah.”
You snuggle closer to whatever it is that’s so warm. It smells like detergent and cologne, which seems like the oddest thing to you.
“WHICH ONE’S YOURS?”
You’re groggy from sleep and whisper a number. Vaguely you realize Tom’s helping you up the stairs, and you clasp on to long, warm fingers. He laughs. You reach into your pocket for the apartment key and hand it to him. He opens the door and leads you inside.
“Where’s your bedroom?” He raises his eyebrows at you.
“Cheeky,” you reply, not sure where it came from or why you said it; it just seemed appropriate.
Tom laughs loudly, which makes you jump and knocks consciousness back into you. You move toward the bedroom and flop down on the bed as soon as you enter. He follows you, and you feel your shoes being unlaced. Everything’s drifting in and out, and you’re not sure if what happens next actually happens.
“Good night, love.” He chuckles and plants a kiss on your forehead.
The next morning when you wake up, the events from the night before slowly come back. But everything is halted. The music. His warm side. The kiss to your forehead. Halted by one little, tiny thing you told yourself.
You’d said that you’d loved him.
EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE has limits. And you can be the kind of person who tests those, to see what they are, or step back and never know. The thought of leaving The Avengers set next month after filming and not knowing these limits had you antsy. This crush on Tom had blossomed more than you had wanted it to, and dancing all over the line between friends and more was a little tempting.
This Monday morning you had woken up and decided that you were tired of silently sitting back, going about day-to-day life as if nothing had changed in you. Because it certainly had.
Tom waltzes in, sweaty and bright-eyed, after a three-hour workout at the gym. Your heart skips a beat as you take him in because that head of hair is as wild as ever.
“Good morning.” He smiles, setting his gym bag on the floor. “Mind if I take a shower? I smell horrendous.” He was such a liar. Tom was probably the only human being on the planet that thought the smell of detergent and cologne was bad.
“If you smell horrendous, then I smell like a garbage dump,” you reply, remembering that you’re supposed to be testing boundaries.
He gives you this look that says, “You are the silliest girl who has ever walked the face of the planet.” You can’t disagree, but nonetheless, when his eyes roll back and those eyebrows shoot up, it feels like the whole trailer has come crashing down on you.
“You know where the towels are.” You dismiss him with a wave of your hand, turning around to the vanity before your cheeks can betray you.
“Thank you, dear.” You hear his bag slide across the floor, into the bathroom.
If you’re supposed to be learning how far you can go without it becoming awkward, how are you to do it? What are you going to say? It’s causing your cheeks to turn pink. You sit there, in the vanity chair, for what feels like ten years, trying to decide what you’re supposed to do.
The opening of the sliding door to the bathroom breaks you out of your stalled thoughts. And out steps Thomas. In jeans. And that’s it. He’s drying his hair with a towel, and you can only assume that he didn’t want to get his shirt wet doing so.
You can’t help but stare. It’s like you don’t have control over your eyes. He’s pale, but you see the potential for a tan, and he’s still sort of wet.
“Hey?” He finishes up with the towel.
You don’t look up at his face and only softly ask, “What?”
He laughs. “My eyes are up here.” Tom throws the towel on the bathroom sink.
“Huh?” Then you realize exactly what he said and blush a deep red. “Sorry.”
“Oh, the fault is mine.” He chuckles. “No woman can resist my charms.”
You stand, turning to the counter quickly, and pick up a makeup brush. “Your charms need to put a shirt on.”
It had taken some time, but every once in a while you’d slip in a derogatory statement that had more than one meaning. Nothing vulgar, mind you, just little things that would possibly get his head turning the slightest bit.
Something had to give, otherwise you’d have to be put in a mental institution. How one person could be so oblivious to everything amazed you. For someone who seemed to be able to read between the lines, he sure needed help.
A lot of help.
FILMING ENDS SOON. Very, very soon, and the day has snuck up on you so quickly that it’s started to get hard to keep breathing. All of these wonderful, beautiful, exciting people will not be part of your life every day anymore. The thought threatens to crush your heart again for the second time that morning, while applying Tom’s mascara.
Turning around to get the eyeliner, you peek a glance at yourself in the vanity mirror. Red-rimmed eyes aren’t something desirable. But they’re there, nonetheless. You blink a few times to stop their burning, which doesn’t help much.
Turning around with the liquid pen, you tell Tom, “Look up.”
He does as he’s told. He’d caught on to your dark mood when he walked in this morning. A few jokes were made, a couple cheery sentences, a hug. It all just reminded you of what you were losing. Not what you had.
Your steady hand drags the pen across the bottom lid of his eye. You can’t help but want to stare at the color of his eyes sometimes, just to memorize it, so you can keep it with you when he moves on.
Because he will move on. Without you. Without Cora. Without anyone but himself. Your throat closes up at the thought of not seeing him every day. Not hearing his voice or his laugh, or those silly jokes that he thinks are funny and which you don’t understand because he uses so much British slang. Not being able to mess with that beautiful head of hair or to play pranks anymore. There won’t be any more outings for lunch or dinner just to talk about stuff you both liked. He’d be gone.
Finishing his eyeliner, you step back and sniffle softly, hoping that he doesn’t see through the mask you’d put on this morning.
“Done?” He sits up and gives a grin that melts your heart a little.
You nod, not trusting your voice to stay steady, but he sees right through you. He stands and comes forward and holds out his arms, waiting for the hug.
“Oh, my love,” he whispers, holding you tightly to him, one hand on the back of your head, burying your face in his chest. The other arm wraps around your shoulders, pressing you against him.
A tear escapes you and is absorbed into his button-up shirt. Your arms are wrapped around his middle, never wanting to let go. Right now, he’s that friend that you’ve always needed but never found.
“This isn’t the end, love,” he says for the second time that day. “We’ll still see each other.”
You don’t reply. His heart is beating loudly in his chest, and you hear it as clearly as a siren.
He lifts your head so he can look you in the eye. “Are you crying?”
“No,” you reply weakly, but a lone tear betrays you and falls down your cheek.
His thumb comes to wipe it away. “It’s okay to cry.”
THEN, AS QUICK AS THE flash, comes the final day on set. After this, The Avenge
rs is a wrap for filming and you’ll no longer be required. As you drive to work, you realize it’ll be the last time to say hi to Robert Downey Jr. and actually get a reply because he knows you. It’ll be the last time to give Chris Evans a bro fist. The last time Jeremy Renner will look you up and down and say, “You’re the prettiest belle at the ball,” in that cheesy, fake country accent.
So the pep talk to yourself consists of a halfway garbled and halfway understandable sob: You do this every day. No need to be sad. This isn’t the end. We’ll still see each other.
But you can’t make yourself believe it.
You skip the breakfast tent. Check your supplies. Chat in the group of people who all are in the same mood you are. Receive and give dozens of hugs. Hold back more tears. And get to work.
Tom comes in, in a lot better mood than you, his hands behind his back and a sad smile on his face. “Good morning, love.” His English accent rolls over you. “Happy last day of filming.”
Suddenly you’re afraid that this will be the last time you hear his voice. Which is absurd, but frightens you nonetheless.
You give him a watery smile. “Morning. How are you?”
He ignores the question, instead stepping closer to you and bending down to look you in the eyes. “What is wrong with my girl today?”
You laugh and smile, wiping away a renegade tear. “This is the end of the road, my friend.”
He looks appalled. “No, it’s not—it’s only the very beginning.”
You cross your arms and sniffle. “Easy for you to say. They can’t replace the actor who plays Loki, but they can replace his makeup artist.”
“I’m surprised.” He exhales. “You aren’t usually this dramatic. Granted, you are dramatic. Just not this dramatic. And never, ever say that you could be replaced.”
His eyes take a more stern set. “Never. You can’t ever be replaced to me.”
This feeling in the pit of your stomach is stronger than it’s ever been before. He’s so accepting. Understanding. It makes you feel important and appreciated.
When you don’t make a move to say anything in reply, he continues, “I got you something.”
“You didn’t have to do that!” You quickly wipe away the tears that fall down your cheek. Luckily, your eyes aren’t puffy and red like they had been last week.
“Oh, but I wanted to.”
Tom’s smiling like the loon he is as he pulls out a small box wrapped in golden paper. It fits in his palm, and you take it when he offers.
“You really didn’t have to do this,” you chide, looking into his eyes.
His smile softens and he whispers, “Open it.”
You unwrap the golden paper to find a little velvet jewelry box. You feel a small blush rise to your cheeks before you work up enough courage to continue. Opening it slowly, you see the glimmer of red and blue and gold. A little golden heart with the United Kingdom’s flag sits on a gold chain.
You hear him talking as you stare at it. You don’t look up at him, but you know he’s staring at you just as intently as you are at his gift.
“You’re always afraid that you’ll never see me again,” he says softly. “I’m always around. Every time you see that, or wear it, you’ll think of your old pal Tom and you’ll call me. Plus—we’ve still got a press tour to go on.”
Another tear falls down your cheek and he reaches up to wipe it away. Before he’s able to end the conversation, you envelop him in a hug, catching him by surprise. Your arms wrap around his middle again, the side of your face pressed into his chest. He returns it gladly, resting his head on top of yours.
He’s so warm, and comfortable and sweet. He always manages to smell amazing. His heart is as gorgeous as gold. And now you’ve got a beautiful reminder of all of that through this tiny gift.
You know what you’re saying when you say it. It doesn’t catch you by surprise.
“I love you.”
You feel his chuckle resonate through his body; he plants a kiss on top of your head. “And I love you.”
“WHO LET HIM UP THERE . . . like that?” you groan into your hands, cringing at the sight of Tom.
Luke shifts in his seat beside you uncomfortably. “I didn’t notice.”
“He looks like a creepy Daniel Day-Lewis,” you complain, a bit too loudly, and a few fangirls turn around to look at you. Ignoring them, you continue, “I told you to force him to shower—the man can’t take care of himself apparently.”
You’re grumbling, trying to fix this situation. But it can’t be done. He’s already up at the panel, answering questions, making playful banter. He’d been so excited about being at Comic-Con that he’d shirked some responsibilities that morning, like showering.
And shaving.
Quit. Picking. At. Your. Beard. Thomas. You just want to scream it over the noisy crowd.
It’s like no one has noticed but you. His greasy-looking Loki hair that’s been slicked back slightly (obviously his doing; you’d never let him out like that), his unkempt beard that’s a different stinking color from his hair (your OCD is flaring like nobody’s business), and he’s so pale. It all doesn’t fit together, and you wonder how he’s sitting there smiling like it’s nothing.
You know that you shouldn’t be so obsessed over appearance—but it’s your job to make him look good for the public. You’re wearing a geeky Star Trek T-shirt and jeans, your green sneakers, and your brown hair is up in a loose ponytail; you’d even decided to break out your nonprescription hipster glasses.
But Tom, just . . . Tom.
You’ll berate him for this afterward. Ask him what in the world he was thinking.
He’ll just give you that face and you’ll forgive him like always, saying, “Never do it again.” But he will, and the cycle will repeat.
Right now, though, you need to focus on something else. Like that line forming for questions. It luckily only takes twenty minutes to reach the front of the line and step up. So many questions had been for Tom, and Tom only. So you were going to go against the norm—no matter how much the room might hate you for it.
“My question is for Chris Evans,” you say like you’re nervous. Chris’s ears perk up, as well as Tom’s, and you can see the two of them, and the rest of the panel, fighting off a smile.
“Yes?” Chris lets a smile slip.
You pause and pretend to take a deep breath. “How are you? Are you well?”
You hear the room chuckling as Chris does the same. “I’m pretty good. What’s your name, miss?”
“My friends call me one thing”—you stare him down and give him a look that will have him rolling on the floor later—“but you can call me tonight.”
Ignoring the erupting laughter of the crowd around you, you let your eyebrows jump up and down, and you send him a quick wink.
Tom restrains Chris with a hand and leans up to his microphone. “Dibs.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” you start, glaring at Tom. “Mr. English Accent”—Tom stops, his eyes going wide. You hope he can see the playfulness that you’re trying to convey with your own eyes—“talking with Cap right now. You’re jötunn. Chill.”
That gets some “Oh, burn!” and cheers from the crowd, and you allow the satisfaction of the comeback to wash over you.
“Well, Tonight”—Chris chuckles as he leans back into his mic—“how are you today?”
“Just wonderful, thank you,” you reply cheerfully, bouncing a bit in your spot.
“Did you have another question, miss?” Tom asks.
You pretend to tear yourself away from Chris to look at him. “Yes.” Your tone is dripping with annoyance and you cross your arms over your chest, allowing one leg to support your weight. “Mr. Pure Imagination—do tell me if you’ve ever heard of a razor?”
It gets so quiet in that room that you could’ve heard a pin drop, before the entire panel erupts into laughter. It’s hard not to start laughing yourself.
“I have.” Tom chuckles. “But I’m afraid that I wasn�
��t properly instructed this morning on whether or not to shave.”
You lean into the mic and whisper, “You should have.”
His smirk makes you want to giggle, but you hold it in and say, “Good-bye, Chris, it was nice getting to almost speak to you.”
Turning on your heel, you ignore the steaming fangirls and head for the lobby doors—just to leave Tom and Chris to manage the damage.
“HMMM,” YOU HEAR before something crashes into your side, wrapping around your waist, “feisty today, aren’t we?”
You love this warmth that he emits so easily, and so carelessly. What have you done to deserve this?
He walks with you through the lobby of your hotel, hand remaining on your waist. “I would’ve never thought my love would’ve been so . . . cavalier.”
“That was not cavalier,” you snort. “That was being a teasing flirt.”
“A flirt, eh? So you were flirting with me?”
You deny your face its right to burn bright red. “No, I was flirting with Chris. I was telling you to shave.”
“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO do?” you groan, flopping back onto the king-size bed that Cora was fortunate enough to have. You and Cora had sleepovers every once in a while, reminding you of those old childhood memories that you both were so fond of. (Really, Cora was still a child. Not even fifteen yet.)
Since the press tour had ended, your contract with Marvel had run out. You’d decided that you deserved a vacation, packing your bags and catching a plane back to Indiana. Perhaps many would believe that spending your off time back in your hometown with your family wasn’t the proper idea of “relaxing,” but you were quite content.
Tom was still there—in the back of your mind. The two of you had remained good friends, although your not seeing him, ever, was weird.