𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 ♡
Parings → Tom Holland x OC! Bangladeshi! Reader
Warnings → Fluff, Newlyweds, Soft intimacy, Henna, Domestic life, Day after wedding.
Summary → Tom searching his name in your henna designed hands.
The room was quiet in that lazy, newlywed way—curtains half-drawn, sunlight spilling across tangled sheets, the world outside politely minding its business.
Tom had you pulled into his chest, your head tucked under his chin, one arm snug around your waist. His other hand was occupied—your hand, to be exact. He kept turning it over like it was something precious, thumbs brushing over your knuckles, your palm, the stains of henna still dark against your skin.
“Your hands are ridiculously small,” he murmured, amused and fond at the same time. He pressed his palm flat against yours, fingers dwarfing yours effortlessly. “Look at this. It’s actually unfair.”
You hummed, eyes still closed, smiling. “And yet,” you said lazily, “they fit in yours perfectly.”
That earned a soft kiss to your forehead.
“They do,” he agreed, quietly. His thumb traced the edge of a vine curling around your finger, “I like that I get to hold these forever now.”
You opened your eyes then, tilting your head just enough to look up at him. His hair was messy, curls falling into his eyes, face soft and sleepy and entirely yours. Husband. The word still felt unreal in the best way.
“Hey,” you said suddenly.
“Hmm?”
“Your name is written in the henna.”
He blinked. Once. Twice.
“…Wait. Really?”
You grinned. “Mhm.”
His eyes immediately dropped to your hand, posture straightening like you’d just issued him a challenge. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
Tom shifted, gently lifting your hand higher, bringing it closer to his face. His brows furrowed in concentration as he studied the intricate patterns—florals, vines, delicate swirls wrapping around your fingers and wrist.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. I can find this.”
You bit back a laugh as he rotated your hand slowly, inspecting every inch like it was a puzzle. He traced a vine with his finger, then paused.
“Is this a T?” he asked, hopeful.
“Nope.”
“…That’s just rude.”
You laughed, finally sitting up against the pillows while he followed, still holding your hand hostage. He leaned closer, squinting.
“Who designed this?” he asked. “Because this is evil.”
“I told her to make it small,” you admitted sweetly. “Hidden. You’re supposed to work for it.”
“Oh, I am working,” he said, shifting so he could see better, his nose almost brushing your skin. “I deserve at least a hint. First name or last name?”
You shook your head. “Nope.”
“Any letter?”
“Absolutely not.”
Tom groaned dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder for half a second before lifting it again, determination back in his eyes. “Fine. I don’t need hints. I’m a grown man. A married man.”
That made your chest flutter.
He went back to examining, slower this time. His finger traced the design gently, reverently, until he paused near the base of your thumb.
“…Wait,” he said.
You went still.
He leaned even closer. “Hold on. Hold on—don’t move.”
Your heart started racing as his finger hovered over a tiny curve tucked into the vines.
“That’s a T,” he whispered. “That’s definitely a T.”
You shrugged innocently. “Is it?”
“And—” his finger followed the line carefully, eyes widening, “—that connects into an O. Sneaky little O.”
He looked up at you, eyes bright, like he’d just found buried treasure. “Oh my God. It is my name.”
You nodded, smiling. “Keep going.”
He traced it slowly, reading each letter under his breath like it was sacred. “T… O… M.”
When he finished, he just stared at it for a second. Then at you.
“You hid my name,” he said softly, almost awed, “in something you’ll carry with you.”
“Only for a little while,” you said.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replied immediately. He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss right over the spot, lips lingering. “You chose to put me there.”
His voice dropped, thick with emotion. “That’s… that’s insane.”
You leaned into him, forehead touching his. “You’re mine,” you whispered. “I wanted you written into it.”
Tom exhaled, pulling you into his chest, holding you tight like he needed to ground himself. “I’m never topping that,” he murmured into your hair. “You realise that, right?”
You smiled against his shirt. “Good.”
He laughed softly, kissing the top of your head. “God, I love being your husband.”
And just like that, the world felt smaller, quieter—just you, him, and his name hidden in the lines of your hand, exactly where it belonged.
°:. *₊ ° . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ° .•
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