The Lighthouse: A Tom Hardy FanFiction

The Pie

I'd given him the choice between the bedroom on either side of mine or the two bedrooms built inside the lighthouse itself. His eyes had lit up like a child's when I'd told him where the other two bedrooms were.

"Can I see them?" he asked. The lighthouse bedrooms were my absolute limit. The staircase wound up from the living room to the first bedroom - the master bedroom - a circular room decorated beautifully to within an inch of its life. Positioned just above that was a smaller double room about half the size of the room below.

I led the way with Tom following close behind me up the narrow twisting stairs to the first room and then I'd pointed the way to the upper bedroom, which I told him was slightly on the smaller side. Both were colder than the bedrooms in the main cottage too because the thermal walls didn't extend up here and I hadn't put the heating on in this part of the house as there'd been no point. These rooms were cool and comfortable in the summer — I'd stayed in the larger room a few years back when we'd come to celebrate Laura's birthday - but like habitable fridges in winter.

I wait in the stairwell for him to reemerge, the condensation misting in front of my face in short white puffs as I dance lightly on the tips of my toes. Finally he clunks down the stairs and gives me a wide eyed look.

"You want to go up there now don't you?" I nod.

"Just for a look, bet the view's fucking incredible." He tilts his head right back and peers upwards. It exposes his throat, roughly covered in a thick brown beard encasing a solid looking adams apple. The sight of it makes my mouth water and my tongue itch.

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the small chunk of keys which opens the door to the lighthouse bedrooms and the viewing platform at the top.

Knock yourself out." I hand out the key to him. "I mean not literally because I'm not coming up there to get you no matter what."

He smirks. "You're fucking terrified of heights aren't you?"

I ignore him.  "Decided on your bedroom yet?" I ask instead.

He nods. "Yeah. Nice rooms but I'll sleep next to you," he says before a small (sexy) laugh breaks out of his mouth. "In the bedroom next to yours I meant. Fuck sake Tom," he shakes his head. He doesn't meet my eye when he steps forward to take the key from me but when his hand touches mine a ripple moves through me, out from the spot where his warm fingers meet mine. When he does lift his eyes to mine a strange look moves through them. I feel my bones soften.

Is this how he always looks at women? Does he just go about giving them this kind of heavy hot stare like it's even remotely fair? How on earth do they keep themselves upright? "Sure you don't want to come?" he asks, lifting his eyebrows playfully. I have to take a deep breath of stability before I can even think of some appropriate words to respond to that with.

"I can't think of a single thing that would convince me to go up there with you," I lie. "You enjoy yourself now," I say as I turn my back on him and begin descending the stairs. "You might want to come down for your jacket though." I throw up at him.

"Nah, I need the practice," he throws back.

I shake my head - finding far too much comfort in the idea of nursing him back to health from hypothermia should he catch it on the platform.

In the kitchen I pour myself a large glass of red wine and inspect the contents of the oven, namely the Cumberland pie he'd actually helped me prepare earlier. He'd peeled potatoes with a set of swift, talented fingers and sliced them up expertly fine. So he was domesticated. Who knew? I suppose he was lots of things people had no idea about. I wonder what other things. Crossword genius? Trainspotter?