The last thing you expected to see was Tom Hiddleston sitting on the curb in front of your house. In fact, it was the last thing you wanted to see.
He sits with his long legs pulled close to his body, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands, and utter dismay etched into his striking features. The sight of him so defeated, so pathetic, is a small victory after all the bullshit he put you through. But you can't find the pleasure to appreciate the moment. Instead, a twang of guilt pinches at your insides. Hell fucking no. He doesn't deserve your pity. You push away the remorse and harden your heart, ready to fend off whatever sweet talk or sexiness he has as a means to distract you from your anger.
You pull your car into an available street spot. Tom bounds to his feet in an instant and nervously smoothes the front of his white t-shirt. The motion all but punches you between the legs. Those large hands, those long fingers splayed wide against threadbare fabric, the slow downward motion as he slides lower, lower...god, just a little lower...
Fuck! He was already working his distraction magic. You squint your eyes shut and focus on your anger to ward off his spell. Unfortunately, the damage has already been done. After all, you've seen what those hands are capable of, know where those fingers have been.
You walk past him without so much as a glance. It's the hardest fucking thing you've ever done. You clench your teeth so tightly it makes your jaw ache and gives you a headache. Humans weren't made to have this kind of perseverance.
"Please, just hear me out–" Tom pleads. Fuck. You were hoping to get inside and away from him before he spoke. His voice is pure fucking sex, and damn if he doesn't sound remorseful too. You start a cadence in your mind: Keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Don't turn around. Don't. Turn. Around.
"I've heard enough, Tom. In that, I never heard anything, remember? No call, no text, not even a fucking email. Nothing. That's all I was worth to you. Silence." Your heart throbs, breaking all over again at the memory. Tears cloud your vision but you blink them away. No way. He doesn't have the right to see you cry. You've given him enough of your tears. You focus on the pain. It's good. It's going to get you through that door.
"I know. I'm an asshole," Tom's voice breaks. "I'm so sorry."
He's crying. You can tell. The guilt is back in your stomach and the sadness in Tom's voice has stolen your fight away. "It's not enough."
"Then tell me what is."
The door is so close. You get your key from your pocket and grab for the handle. This is almost over. It could have been so much worse. Sure, you're going to spend the entire weekend cycling through bouts of hysteric crying followed by self-loathing, nostalgic, frustrated masturbation but at least you stood your ground.
"Wait. Please. Please don't go."
The key is in the lock. You hold your breath. So close.
"Will you at least look at me?"
The lock clicks. You turn the knob. And suddenly, Tom's hand encircles your upper arm. He spins you around. You go to turn away but your neck is already tilting to look up at him. Your gazes lock. His eyes are stormy blue, glinting with leftover tears in the fading afternoon light. His cheeks are damp and you realize suddenly that yours are too.
Tom's lips part as if to say something but his eyes cloud with an onslaught of memories and words elude him. All the apologies, the excuses, the thousand things he probably wanted to say come out only as, "God, you're beautiful."
Your dumbstruck and it's leaves him the perfect opening. He grabs for you desperately, pulling you so tight against him that it steals your breath away. His lips are on yours before you can process what's happening and it's not just him kissing you, it's you kissing back. It's two years of frustration, a frenzy of passion and longing and need. Where there are only lips soon there are tongues and his wandering hands grappling with the hem of your shirt and your fingers working frantically at his belt.
