Daylight (Golden Ver) | Tom Cruise
Fantasize Series Chapter 14 | Previous Part | Fantasize Masterlist
You can't stay forever in Africa.
Sooner or later, you must face your reality. Face your life. Face the people and pieces you left behind.
So, you come back to L.A.
You arrive in his private jet, your fingers threaded with his as you descend the steps. The tarmac shimmers beneath the California sun, and flashes go off like lightning strikes—shutters clicking in a frenzy the moment your feet touch the ground. But he doesn't let go. If anything, he holds you tighter.
He turns slightly toward you, his eyes hidden behind his dark aviators, and offers that particular smile—just a flicker at the corner of his lips, but powerful enough to steady you. A smile that doesn't just promise you he's here—it promises you you're safe. That it's going to be okay.
Then he pulls you closer.
His arm wraps around you, not just to guide or steady, but to shield. To claim. In that moment, you understand—he's not holding your hand because it looks good for the cameras. He's holding you because he can't not.
Coming home isn't a retreat. It's a reckoning.
And the first reckoning is with your father.
The patio is quiet. The air is still, heavy with the scent of summer and something older—like memory and roses. Overhead, branches rustle, casting dappled shadows over the worn stone tiles.
Inside, Tom waits—giving you the space you asked for.
Your father is standing by the railing, staring into the garden your mother once loved, hands deep in his pockets. He looks older than you remember. Not just aged, but softened—worn down by time, regret, and the kind of silence that stretches too long between two people who once shared everything.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there," he says, without turning. His voice is soft. Measured. Barely above a whisper. "Not after she died. I thought... if I just took care of everything, if I controlled it all... I could stop more loss from happening. But I was wrong."
You blink. Something tightens in your chest.
The little girl inside you—the one who used to wait by the door, hoping he'd come home and see you—wants to cry. But the woman you've become sits still. Steady.
He turns slowly and meets your gaze.
"You are exactly like your mother," he says. "Bright. Fierce. Unstoppable. And it terrified me. Because I knew I couldn't mold you. Couldn't steer you. All I could do... was love you. And I failed at that."
He takes a seat across from you, the weight of his words settling between you like dust in the light.
You draw a breath. "I'm sorry too, dad. For what I said—"
"No, it's fine," he tries to cut in.
But you shake your head. "No. It shouldn't have come out like that. I still love you, Dad. I was just..."
"...Hurting," he finishes. His voice breaks slightly.
And when you look at him again, he sees you. Not the version he wanted. Not a reflection of your mother. Just you.
You don't say anything more. You simply reach across the table and take his hand.
"New blank page," you whisper with a small, tired smile.
He stares at you for a moment before a single tear slips down his cheek. He nods. "New blank page," he repeats.
And for the first time, he stops trying to define you. He lets you be.
Through the glass doors, you spot Tom standing in the living room—on a call, pacing slowly with that quiet confidence. He looks up mid-sentence and catches your gaze.
"I'm sorry I lied about him," you say, glancing toward the doorway. "I wasn't planning this, dad—"
"I know," your father says, his voice calm. Measured. But heavy. His jaw flexes—not in anger, but in some invisible shift. Something he's rearranging within himself.
"We agreed to pause the film," he says. "Maybe just until I can process... all of this."
He leans forward slightly.
"Just tell me one thing," he says. "Does he make you happy?"
You feel that question settle into your ribs.
You smile, almost sheepish. "He flew across the world just to bring me home." You shrug lightly, a trace of wonder in your voice. "I know he's not the kind of man you expected me to bring home. But... I think I could be truly happy, just being with him, dad"
Your father nods. Slowly. Quietly. There's acceptance in his eyes now—maybe not full understanding, but something close. Something real.
After all that's happened, you need a blank new page. Clean walls that won't haunt you with memories when you close your eyes at night.
So you buy a house. Near the beach.
Not in the Hollywood Hills. Not in the gated elite neighborhoods. Just a modest, sunlit home with white-painted walls and linen curtains that dance in the breeze. A kitchen that always smells faintly of lemons and something sweet.
Tom starts spending most of his time there. He says it's to avoid traffic. You know it's because you're there. Because he knows you don't care for the glamor. You crave the sacred. The stillness. The truth.
He comes home to you with shoes kicked off at the door, his forehead pressed to yours before a word is spoken. He learns to love you in the quiet.
At night, you dance barefoot in the kitchen, whispering secrets over the soft hum of the refrigerator. Other nights, you moan his name into the stillness, your laughter tangled in the sheets and the moonlight.
And he smiles now like a man who's found something he thought he'd lost a long time ago—home.
On weekends, he takes you on motorcycle rides through winding canyon roads. He finds places where the light touches your face like something holy.
Even though the headlines never stop. Even though rumors spin like storms around your names—your life has never felt this quiet.
You stopped letting things get to you. The noise, the speculation, the cameras. Nothing gets under your skin anymore. Except him.
The love you share with Tom is private. Not hidden. Just sacred. You don't need the world's applause. You only need each other. And so nothing was said publicly.
He's standing on a stage, accepting a Lifetime Achievement Award from Empire Magazine. You've just come home from a brutal five-hour budget meeting, kicked off your heels, and collapsed on the couch. The replay of the award show is playing on your phone.
Tom on your screen looking charming with his suit and thanking producers. Colleagues. Friends.
And then he stops for a second. Looking down at the award in his hand. He smiles to himself.
"Lastly..." Tom says, his voice rich and warm, "I have to mention this one person—even though she might not like it. And would probably kill me for saying this" he grins.
You groan, laughing to yourself. "Oh no, don't do it, baby."
And then, eyes right into the camera—as if he knows you'd be watching—he speaks to you.
"To the love of my life," he says.
"Thank you... for being the greatest surprise of my life. For being unapologetically yourself. You've completely transformed my world. And this—" he lifts the trophy up in the air—"this would mean nothing without you. I love you."
And then he blows a kiss. Walks off the stage. The audience roars.
And you're crying. Because it's real. Because you weren't ready. Because that kind of love doesn't wait for permission. It just is.
The door creaks open just past midnight.
Tom steps inside — rumpled tux, hair tousled, trophy in one hand. But he doesn't admire it. He sets the award trophy gently on the foyer table like it means nothing now. Not compared to his real trophy — you.
"There you are," he says softly. "I missed you."
"You saw me this morning," you murmur, eyes still glued to your laptop, halfway through a spreadsheet.
"Still." He presses a kiss to the top of your head, then shrugs off his jacket. "How was your meeting, sweetheart?"
"Exhausting," you groan. "Your fault, by the way. Now I've got five years' worth of business with a two years of experienced team. And the whole world watching my every move."
Tom chuckles and drops onto the couch beside you. "That's not me, sweetheart. That's all you."
He lifts your legs onto his lap and begins to rub your feet. Your shoulders ease.
"How's my dad? Did you see him?" you ask, remembering the photo he sent earlier — Tom holding the trophy mid-speech, a slant of pride in your father's text as he said to you: 'your boyfriend clean up nicely'.
Tom nods. "Yeah. He congratulated me. He's doing okay. I think... I think we're good now."
Your gaze flicks to his. "Really?"
"We, uh... we decided to continue the production."
You blink. "Wait — seriously?"
He nods again. "Seriously."
It takes a second to register.
Your father and Tom. Back in a room together. Talking. Continuing the production.
Not perfect, maybe. But progress. Big, hopeful progress.
Like perhaps life would go back to its track.
"Oh my gosh, Tom! That's amazing!" you shout, tossing your laptop to the side as you crawl into his lap, arms around his neck.
But when you pull back, something shifts.
There's a look on his face — a softness, yes, but also something else. Off-kilter. Nervous.
"What is it?" you ask. "Is something wrong? Are you not happy? You don't want to—"
"No, no. Of course I'm happy. It's just..." He falters slightly. His fingers twitch on your waist. "We've been talking more lately."
You raise a brow. "Okay... Was it bad?"
He shakes his head. "No. Actually, it was good. Really good."
You study his face, still perched in his lap. "Then what's up with the look?"
You bop the tip of his nose, grinning. "You look like he threatened to punch you again."
That gets a low chuckle from him. But the tension doesn't quite leave his shoulders.
You hop off his lap with a stretch and a yawn. "I'm starving. Want a snack?"
He watches you head into the kitchen, quiet for a beat.
You're rummaging through drawers, when you call out over your shoulder—
"Oh, by the way. That little speech you gave... very cheeky — I thought I told you not to mention me."
Tom strolls in, grinning. "Did I mention you?"
"You said 'the love of my life,'" you reply, raising an eyebrow, mid-bite of your protein bar.
He leans on the counter, amused. "Did I say your name, though?"
Your mouth falls open. "Oh!" you gasp. "I see how it is! I wonder who the unfortunate poor girl is, then?"
He laughs, rounds the island, and presses a kiss to your temple.
"You know it's you, sweetheart."
"Mhm." You chew, mocking him by rolling your eyes.
He lingers a moment, gaze softening. But something's off — you can see it in his eyes. Or the way his fingers keep fidgeting.
"You're being weird. What's going on?"
He shifts, scratches his neck. "No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are. What is it?" you ask.
Tom hesitates. "I just... I've been thinking."
You look up. "About what?"
He scratches the back of his neck. "The next step."
You blink. The protein bar lowers slowly from your hand.
He exhales. "We've been through a lot. And I know... maybe it's too fast. But I don't want to waste another minute not cherishing what we have."
Your lips part slightly at that.
He takes a breath — deeper this time. "I was hoping..." he swallows, as if his nerves have dried his throat. And he does look nervous. "...by the time we finish this movie with your dad, if you still feel the same way—"
His voice breaks slightly. "I was hoping you'd walk the carpet with me."
You stare, confused. Your brain tries to catch up.
Wait—was that what he meant?
"Wait... are you asking me to walk the carpet with you or—" you laugh, a little nervously. "Are you proposing?" You laugh again
"Because that sounds really serious—and God! Tom, the look on your face nearly got me there." Your laughter fills the awkward air.
Tom groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Dammit. I blew it, didn't I?"
Your laughter slowly fades. You look up at him, puzzled. "….What?"
He turns away, shaking his head and laughing helplessly.
Then he looks back. He throws his hands in the air. "I knew I shouldn’t take your father’s offer to drink tonight—because here I am blurting it all out—Damn it!"
"Huh?— Blurting what out?”
"You know this is also your fault, sweetheart—you make everything impossible. One look at that sweet face and I'm gone."
He paces toward the living room and pulls something from his jacket pocket.
"Tom—what are you talking about?"
You stand still. Confused. Your pulse ticking louder.
Tom steps back in front of you. Sighing before he starts:
"I had this whole thing planned. I knew exactly how I wanted to do it…. I'd take you back to Utah. A romantic helicopter ride to that cliffside edge where we used to sneak off to in the middle of the night... I’d prepare a candlelight dinner, violinist—Everything!"
You notice the small velvet box in his hand—the familiar one.
"And when the sun dipped behind the mountain… I'd give you this."
Your hand flies to your mouth. The tears gathering in your eyes.
Tom nods, smiling wide. "Someone came around and gave me his blessing," he says.
You don't need to ask who—Your father.
He proposes with your mother’s ring.
Oval cut. Yellow gold. Halo setting.
The one you adored as a child. You used to call it the 'sun ring,' because when it caught daylight it shone like a burst of sunlight.
Tears well in your eyes. You try to breathe, to steady yourself. But your heartbeat is marching inside your ribs.
Really. Actually. Proposing.
You meet his eyes again, heart thudding. A soft smile breaks through the shock.
"Well... aren't you gonna get down on one knee?"
"Still bossy, aren't ya, sweetheart?"
But even as he protests, he drops to one knee. Gently. Reverently.
"Y/N," he says, your full name spoken like a prayer.
"I know this isn't Utah. No candlelight. No sunset on the edge of a cliff. But wherever you are... that's the sweetest place I've ever known."
His voice trembles. His eyes shine.
"Will you do me the most extraordinary honor of walking every step for the rest of your life with me?
Marry me. Be mine. Forever."
"Oh, Tom..." you choke out, tears spilling freely now.
Your lips tremble. All you can manage is a soft sigh.
He smiles through the nerves. "How long are you gonna keep me on my knees, sweetheart? You don't have a twenty five-year-old boyfriend."
You laugh. Through tears. Through disbelief.
Then you just leap into his arms. You kiss him — hard and deep — with tears streaking down your cheeks.
"Is that a yes?" he whispers breathlessly.
You lean your forehead to his. Breathing him in. One more beat.
"Yes!—Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!"
Tom kisses you again. His arms tighten around you. In one swift motion, he stands and lifts you into the air — twirling you like it's the final scene of a cartoon fantasy.
You squeal and laugh into his kiss.
He gently sets you down again, gaze warm and reverent.
His eyes find yours, glinting with the kind of shine that says he knows he's won something eternal.
Tom takes your hand and slips the ring onto your finger.
It glows under your kitchen light.
You wrap your arms around him.
Because this feels like a fantasy.
Only the soft press of his lips on your temple reminds you—
