maybe 36 from the hurt/comfort prompts? 💓
Tom was struggling.
It was clear in the way he hobbled around the house, muscles aching from overworking his body that grew smaller by the week. It was clear in the way he eyed the sweet treats around the house with a wanting gaze. It was clear in the way that he spent less and less time with you as he pushed himself harder then ever before for this role that was most definitely taking a toll on him.
Today wasn’t any different. He went about his day exercising, practising upcoming lines and then sleeping. Then, he’d maybe work out some more, watch some tv and take a cold bath.
But today he hardly spoke either. He only grumbled and shrugged.
“Are you okay?” You ask softly, slipping into the bed. You’re careful not to disturb Tessa who sleeps peacefully at the foot of the bed. Tom wiggles around until he’s facing you and he gazes up with tired, coffee eyes.
You run your nimble fingers through his hair, playing with the curls and running them from knotts that desperately begged to be brushed out.
Without hesitation, he answers; “I’m okay, promise.”
But it’s nothing but fake.
“Tom,” You sigh, untangling your fingers from his hair. “I’ll ask again. Are you okay?”
You need him to tell you the truth– to be honest, and admit that he was crumbling under the pressure to do well in this role. Gritting your teeth, you wait for him to lower his walls.
Tell me you’re not okay.
“I told you, I’m all good.”
“Stop telling me you’re okay!” You get up out of your shared bed, throwing the covers back because you simply couldn’t stay seated any longer. Your blood was boiling, growing hotter with every lie that slipped right past his lips with almost too much ease. “Stop telling me you’re okay when you’re so clearly struggling. Talk to me, Tom, please.”
Tom gaps then not even a second later his lower lip is quivering. The duvet that he’d been wrapped in is no longer as warm and comforting as it was minutes ago – probably because you’d untangled yourself from it and now stared at him with waiting eyes.
The back of his throat feels dry and Tom can’t remember the last time he had something to drink that wasn’t coffee. Or when he’d last given his body a break.
“Talk to me.” You beg, taking a seat on the edge of the bed again. Your voice is lower this time. Calming.
“A lot’s been going on...”
