Sweet November (A Tom Hiddleston Story)

Part One: The Colors of Fate

Tom closed the novel he had been reading, sliding it across the counter, furrowing his brow in contemplation. He had intended to spend the entirety of his much-needed vacation, reading it in drabbles, but he found himself lost within its words as soon as he opened it on the plane back to London. He spent the nine-hour flight completely enraptured. Then, when he arrived home, he continued to read until he could no longer focus his eyes and sleep overcame him.

He awoke early, going for a run, turning over the concept in his mind. When he agreed to play the role in the upcoming film adaptation, it was as a favor to his friend who was directing it. Kate had practically begged him to play the leading role, and he agreed without looking at the script. If Kate had a good feeling about something, she was usually right. But when she suggested he read the novel, he did not expect the emotions to flood through him.

He pushed himself on his run, wishing someone knew the author. They had used a pseudonym, Marianna Toni Dureu, and no one had any idea who they were. All he knew is that they had to have a rich, intense background in literature, the formatting and passion behind each word was almost Shakespearian.

He had finished it quickly, following his post-run shower, and now he sat, his slender fingers touching the cover softly. He flicked back through the first few pages, the only words from the author typed in simple script as a dedication page.

'For all those who may find lost in a box, I hope these words help you to lift the lid.'

He closed it again, standing from his seat at the kitchen counter, moving to make himself a cup of coffee. It was the first day of his six weeklong vacation... One he desperately needed after having back to back engagements spanning the last 18 months, he hadn't been home for more than a week at a time since it began.

But that was the life he chose, the life he loved... but it had begun to take over, so much so, that without this book to read, he had no idea how he was going to spend the next six weeks.

He opened the cannister, placed in an orderly fashion against the backsplash beneath a narrow window, finding it empty.

"Damn," he muttered allowed to himself, leaning with his hip against the counter. He had forgotten to have a grocery delivery scheduled upon his return. He let out a soft sigh, if he was going to have to go out and get coffee, he was going to get the best. He knew exactly where to go, a small bohemian café in Notting Hill; one he had discovered on one of his morning runs years prior. He walked briskly to the modest living area of his home, grabbing a navy-blue jumper from the back of the sofa and slipping it over his head. He checked for his keys and wallet, then slid on his grey Chelsea boots.

He stepped out of his home and into the crisp, autumn air. The smell of London filling his nostrils. As far as Octobers went in England, the weather today was quite mild. He was glad he had chosen not to grab his coat. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and began walking, keeping a brisk pace, and hoping to avoid any stares as he made his way towards the center of the city where the village of Notting Hill sat.

He kept his mind busy, trying to come up with a list of things to do for the day. What would he do after he got his coffee? He wondered if the market stalls would be open, lining Portobello Road with their unique trinkets and savory treats. The walk didn't take long, his strong legs carrying him quickly down the shortcuts he had memorized like the back of his hand.

His list was short, so far only containing one thing, leaving open the possibility of meandering through the village... something he hadn't done in what felt like years. What he had considered, or placed on his list, was helping a stranger. It was the first day of his vacation, and he was determined to spend it alone.