Ignite Me - CEO!Tom Holland x Fem!Reader

Chapter I

The world seemed to burn.

Growing up, everyone said he were a fire. Ignited so easily and almost impossible to burn out; warm and gentle but deadly. People do stupid things all the time. They swipe their fingers through matches exhaling at the rush, let mountains crumble because someone told them no, and allow sparks to light up the sky, calling it beautiful. It is not beautiful. On the outside yes, a spectacle for all of human nature. Others ignite fire by accident, through a burning oven or being a careless smoker. You and him were not by accident. The two of you burned down every bridge built brick by brick, you were every birthday candle that he couldn't blow out. You caused pain instead of purity. Some say to follow the light at the end of the tunnel, but what if he liked the darkness?

**
You weren't even supposed to meet him. Being an intern at Cosmopolitan magazine somehow led you face to face with Tom Holland, owner of one of the biggest banks in the world, Holland's Bank. At first you didn't even recognize him, it's not like accounting is your passion. The line at Starbucks was so long, which led to you being 15 minutes late. Shit, you thought. My boss is going to kill me. Rushing into the elevator while carrying six coffees in your shaking hands, you slammed straight into a body. It was strong and obviously tense, a rough hand grasping at your wrist. Too embarrassed to even look up at who you ran into, you looked down at the floor, only one coffee spilled. Thank god. Snapping back into your thoughts, you let this unfamiliar man help you back up from almost falling. This stranger held five latte's in his hand, a small smile adorning his face and his honey eyes glimmered in the dim lighting. His cheekbones were sharp and his large arms were firm and muscular. This sexy stranger let out a quick chuckle, which snapped you back to your thoughts.
"I'm so so sorry sir. Oh my god, thank you for catching those other coffees!" Your cheeks began to heat up from embarrassment, looking down at the floor. His shoes, some sort of fancy leather, had coffee and whipped cream spilled all over them. Your jaw dropped, noting the mess all over the elevator floor. Reaching into your purse, you pulled out a whole stack of Starbucks' napkins, throwing them at his feet. "Shit oh no I'm so sorry! Here let me," reaching into your wallet, you pulled out your checkbook, "-how much do I owe you?" He looked so tall and powerful from your position kneeling on the floor.
He held out one of his large hands towards yours. "It's alright, I didn't like these anyways." He spoke with a crisp (but very sexy),British accent that made his voice sound like a gift from God.
Taking his hand, you pulled the bottom of your backpack out of the caffiene mess and smoothed out your hair with your friends. Of course, you thought, The one time I mess up at work is in front of a hot guy with an even hotter accent? Lettting out a forced laugh, you gently took the six coffees from his hand and pressed them up against your chest.
Your voice was frail and shaking, "Ar-are you sure? I feel terrible, please let me do something for you."
He began to roll his eyes, and your stomach dropped to the floor. He'd going to start screaming, isn't he? "I don't need anything from you, now please, get to work. The elevator door's been already open for three minutes." He spoke in a flat tone, displaying his annoyance at the whole situation. His message was crystal clear, so you ducked your head and awkwardly shuffling out of the elevator heading towards your desk. Looking up to compose yourself, you came face to face with your boss, Lydia. She had her right heel tapping on the floor with her hands on her hips, a scowl all over her face. "What the hell (y/n)? You're now exactly eighteen minutes late, and holding everyone up for a VERY important meeting with one of our banks. That's how this company runs, does this internship mean anything to you?" Her deep voice made your stomach churn. By now she was full in screaming and people began peering over their desks to see what happened.
A familiar  masculine voice spoke behind you, making your heart beat even faster. Not again. "Hello, uh, are you Lydia?" The brown eyed stranger questioned, obviously aware you were being yelled at. Lydia's who's demeaned changed, she tucked a strand of her pinstraight red hair behind her ears and smoothed out her dress.
"Yes, I am! Are you Mr. Holland?" He gave her a tight smile along with a quick nod, allowing this nonverbal exchange to let your thoughts linger. Holland, I know that name, you thought. Then it hit you. Holland, the name of the bank that bills me, that pays me. Oh no. There was only one man more powerful than Tom Holland, his father, Dominic. Recently Dominic had retired from the company, passing it down to his eldest son. I'm such an idiot, you thought. He's so famous, and I didn't notice him! He was displayed all over New York City as GQ's cover this month.
Lydia snapped her fingers in front of your face. "Hello? Earth to (Y/n)? I told you to put them in the break room then to organize the filing room. I was going to invite you to this meeting, but obviously you can't handle yourself." She ended her sentence with a light sigh and a smile. Lydia reached for the small of Tom's back, leading him in the opposite direction. You quickly hurried away from the scene, attempting to holding in the tears that stringed at your eyes and the ache of your heart. What a fantastic start to your morning.
Thankfully, the day went by quickly, especially due to the emptiness of the filing room. You had one more hour left of work. It took all day to organize each file by name, number, and color; exactly how Lydia likes it. Seeing as you din't have much time till work ends, you decided to write an apology note to Tom. You knew there's no way it will ever reach him, seeing he's basically a celebrity and all that, but it's worth a shot. Reaching into your desk drawer, you pulled out floral stationary your mom gave you before attending NYU. Pulling out a black ballpoint pen, you wrote your sincerest apologies to Mr. Holland, and practically begging him to not let the elevator incident affect the company. After rereading the letter five times to make sure it was perfect, the clock struck five o'clock. Gathering your laptop and notebooks, you shoved them all in your backpack while wrapping a scarf around your neck. Deciding to take the stairs instead of the elevator, you put in earbuds and blasted your favorite album, Reputation by Taylor Swift. Slightly nodding your head along to the beat, you carelessly dropped your letter in the outgoing mail box.
Pushing through Cosmopolitan's large glass doors, you walked towards your the closest metro station. Looking up at New York, it never failed to amaze you. The tall skyscrapers and bright signs advertising anything and everything. Hurrying down the dirty stairs, you swiped your student card and hopped on the train, heading towards Grenwitch Village. Fiddling with your phone, a notification saying you got an email from Lydia appeared. I'm so not dealing with her right now, you thought. It was a dreary Wednesday evening, and all you wanted to do was go back to your the dorm and spend the night with a bottle of wine and Pretty Little Liars.
The train made screeching noises against the tracks, along with not being able to move in the busy train. After four or so stops, you got off the metro and walked up another three flights to your dorm room.
Dropping your bags onto the floor, you immediately stripped of your mom's old work dress and flats, replacing them with an oversized hoodie and "boy-short" style  underwear. Sinking into your bed, you shamelessly grabbed a bottle of wine out from your nightstand. Rose, your roommate, was spending the next six weeks in Paris to finish up the semester, which allowed you to have plenty of free time. Grabbing your phone from the floor, you sent a text to some classmates about a group project then scrolled through your Twitter timeline.
Your phone buzzed again, another text from Lydia. Switching to the mail app and opening up her message, it displayed something about Tom Holland and you, "Oh god, I have to show THE Tom Holland around the offices tomorrow. Shit shit shit shit." Quickly jumping out of bed, you began to pace. What if he doesn't like me? What if he pities me? Oh god oh god, harmful thoughts zooming through your head until you googled everything Cosmopolitan has ever done and perfected a summary of your job at the company. At 1am, you realized drinking any type of alcoholic beverage would make tomorrow harder than it already was. Passing out on your bed, you dreamt of what the Tom Holland is really like behind an assortment of Rolex's and Italian leather shoes.
**
The light coming through your windows made you groan in annoyance. Work today, again. Taking a deep breath and sitting up, you realized that tomorrow (Friday), was when you had lectures and not work. Combing your hands through your messy hair, you stood up and stretched, grabbing your caddy and heading to the bathroom. The white tiled room was completely empty, no college sophomore was up at 6am. Your dream was to work for a fashion magazine, so interning a year earlier that others was going to be helpful, right? Brushing your teeth, you placed your iPad up against the mirror and turned on The Office. This show makes you feel like there's a possibility that work can be fun sometimes. But Cosmopolitan was no Dunder Mifflin and Lydia was no Micheal Scott, more of a Jan in your opinion. Soaking your beauty blender in Kylie Jenner's concealer, you dabbed it over your face and set the powder with setting power. Within the next thirty minutes or so, you applied bronzer, blush, fillied in your eyebrows, applied eyeshadow, mascara, and highlighter. You waited to apply lipgloss the second before you leave since it's the easiest product to come off. Reaching into your tiny closet, you grabbed a mid-thigh length black denim skirt and a cropped ivy green sweater. Lana del Rey was playing on shuffle, letting you dance around your tiny room, pretending to perform. Just before you were about to put on your tights, a quick knock was heard from outside your room. Glancing at your clock, it was 7:15am, who the hell is up this early? Not even the DA would be awake and Rose is still in Paris. Taking a deep breath and expecting a kidnapper, you meekly opened the door and looked, slightly down at the man in front of you. Holy fuck, it was Tom Holland. He was wearing a loose white button up with jeans tight in all the right places. Fuck me.