Money Heist // t.h.

2 - Then

 A year ago, you would have never expected yourself to participate in the robbery of your own workplace, yet here you were. It had all started when Tom walked up to your counter, handing you a cheque of 6.90 dollars. The small amount made you raise your eyebrow, already wondering if you would give in and ask what the story behind this was. He could see the confusion in you and responded to the unasked question.

"It was a bet."

You gave him an unimpressed expression, typing information from the cheque over into your computer. Of course, you wanted to know what the damn bet was, but it wouldn't have been professional. But again, Tom could read you. He had played to your interest and curiosity, and he knew it.

"I had bet that I could get the number of the cutest person here," he leaned on the counter, a smug grin on his face. His fingers were toying with the pen on his side of the window barrier. The little metal chain clinked as it hit the surface.

"Right, and since you can't get your own number-"

"You think I'm cute, love?" Oh right, he had been wearing glasses because he had looked up at you from behind them. That mischievous twinkle was always there. You could have seen it as a warning, a red flag, but instead, you saw it as a light signal. A firehouse spotlight welcoming you into an entirely new world.

"That's not what I meant," you tried to play it off cool, "And you know you're really wasting everyone's time here, people have better things to do than stand in line at the bank," you finished off the transaction... well, almost. Right before you were about to finalise the process, you paused and looked at Tom.

"Am I correct to understand that you were supposed to get the money if I gave you my number?"

"Well, yeah..." Tom's confident grin had subsided.

"Then, since you have not fulfilled the task, I cannot, in my good conscience, accept this cheque transaction, I'm sorry, sir," with a polite smile, you slipped the piece of paper right back to him. He looked at it, dumbfounded, then back at you. In the background, you could hear someone laughing, but you ignored it. "Have a nice day."

He looked at you, mouth open and eyes wide, before stepping aside. He must have not dealt with a lot of rejection in his life, you felt like. You were about to press the button to call the next client in line when he popped right back up in front of you.

"When do you get off?"

"Excuse me?"

"Off work, when do you finish? I would really like to take you out tonight if that's alright." His cocky facade had lifted, and you could see a softer side to him. His smirk changed into a genuine innocent smile, and he had taken off those dumb sunglasses. He was bouncing his leg up and down while waiting for your answer.

"At five," you mumbled, angry at yourself that you had given in, "but if you make me wait-"

"I'll make it worth your while," he winked, bringing back that smugness, and then he was finally on his way out. As you pressed the button announcing the following number in line, you could see him walk out through the glass doors. He was with someone, probably the H. Osterfield that had signed the cheque. From your distance, you couldn't make out much more besides the fact that he was taller than Tom.

You had just enough time to look away before Tom noticed you staring. Yeah, he had gotten you hooked.

And it only got worse after your "date". He had taken you out to a restaurant. It was a small Italian place, where you paid more for the atmosphere than for the food (which was still good). You spent the whole night talking and laughing. He had this way about him that he made any interaction effortless. It was his charm.

Maybe because of this charm, you had no apprehension about going back to his place when he suggested it. On the other hand, maybe because of it, you had easily broken your own rule not to kiss on a first date... or anything beyond that.

You weren't sure if you had preferred it if it had only been a one-night thing. If you had woken up in his bed and there wasn't a full breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen, if you hadn't found him standing at the stove, flipping the last pancake, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and a quirky little apron. But all of that had happened, and you had eaten your pancakes, and before leaving, you had scribbled your phone number on the whiteboard on his fridge.

He called you that afternoon, asking if you wanted to meet up again that weekend.

To dwell on old decisions didn't do anyone well, but you still wondered if you should have said no. And if you had, where would you have ended up then? Most definitely not where you were now...