To Let Love Destroy Us: A Tom Hiddleston Fanfic

1

God, I hate mornings. I hated the sound of my alarm on my phone obnoxiously sounding off. I hated the way the sun would peek through my blinds and hit my eyelids perfectly to wake me up. This bed was comfortable. It was my cloud, my escape from the world I lived in and I didn't want to leave it. I never do, but the bills had to get paid.

Living in California was no easy feat. I've only been here two years and I was just now starting to get the hang of living in a city of this size. The city I lived in back home wasn't exactly a city; it was a town with four traffic lights and everyone waved at each other as they passed by. Here, there were several traffic lights and no one paid the next person any mind. That actually might be the only thing I miss about home.

I awaken on my stomach, my head facing toward the window. I open an eye and squint at the sunlight seeping in. A small groan slips from my lips as I turn my head in the opposite direction. Ten more minutes...just ten more minutes of sleep and then I'll get up. My eyes flutter closed again. Just a few more minutes, I thought as I slipped back into unconsciousness.

Have you ever been suspicious of how long you've slept? Does your body jolt awake around the clock in hopes that you haven't missed something your subconscious has been anticipating? Do you violently pat down the cool sheets that surround you in search of your phone and when you find it, you find out you had absolutely nothing to worry about? I have and do; today isn't one of those days though.

My eyes snap open and I sit up quickly in my bed. "Fuck." I whisper as I begin to toss my blankets around. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." A black mass flies from my sheets and to the floor, sliding across the hardwood and up against the wall in front of my bed. I watch it in disbelief for a second before scrambling from bed. Please don't be broke. My feet touch the cool floor, sending slight shivers up through my shoulders. I lean down to grab the phone from the floor, muttering prayers over it that the screen wasn't cracked. I couldn't afford a new phone right now. This needed to make it at least a few more months.

The screen came on and I let out a sigh of relief. That sigh of relief was immediately snatched back up at the time displayed on the screen. I was late for work. Like two hours late. Down below the time was messages and missed calls from my boss. I hung my head in shame. He's going to kill me when I finally make it to work. He's gonna kill me and frame it up as a workplace accident. I should call him. Should I call him? It'll get the worst part out of the way. If I just explain what happened, maybe he'll let me off the hook. I've been working nonstop for a week and when I'm not doing that, I was acting. I'm exhausted, honestly.

He wouldn't care. I can hear his nagging voice now. Instead of calling, I decided on texting him an explanation and telling him I was on the way. I also proposed that I stay later today to make up for the hours that I missed. I had fingers crossed he doesn't fire me. It's hard to find jobs around here and acting isn't exactly paying the bills at the moment; at least not yet. One day, hopefully.

I toss my phone onto my bed and strip out of the oversized t-shirt I had on. Humming softly to a tune in my head, I walk around my bed. My eyes scanned the floor for my work shirt amongst the pile of clothes that began to gather at the side of my bed. God, I needed to wash clothes. This was pathetic. Can't say I'm ashamed though. No one ever comes in here. Dating in Los Angeles wasn't exactly all the rage. Everyone was caught up in their dreams or too busy not being their authentic selves, making things pretty pointless. I kick around the pile of clothes until a dark red button-up surface. I pull it through and huff slightly at the wrinkles. No time to iron it. Giovanni is just gonna have to get over it. I toss the shirt on the bed and make my way out of my bedroom and towards the bathroom.

*****

Calling out probably would've been the better route to go now that I'm thinking about it. When I told Gio I was on my way, I wasn't thinking about the time I was going to be spending in traffic. That added an extra hour and my time of work shortened more because of our set store hours. I burst into the restaurant, weaving between the tables towards the back. Eyes followed me as I did, whispering coming in second place. Could they tell I was late? If so, I wonder what did—the wide panic in my averted eyes or my thinly pressed lips?