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“Love... what the hell are you doing?” A groggy voice comes from behind you. Turning around you see Tom staring, sleepily staring and rubbing his eyes. He sits down at the kitchen table, places his head in his hands, and lets out a sigh.
Not looking up from your very important task you chirp, “I’m making a Hot Pocket! Want some?” Your attentive gaze focused on the delicious pastry, spinning in the microwave you await its glorious taste. He groans and you turn back and catch a glimpse of an eye roll. Eyes wandering his body lazily, you notice he’s still wearing the same sweatpants and tee-shirt that he’s worn for the past 2 days. It seems so unlike him to wear the same clothes that long. Granted, the shirt hugs his biceps just right and his sweatpants dip low enough to see the waistband of his Calvins, so you're not really complaining too hard. God, I love him. He looks at the hot pocket in the microwave and back at you, a baffled look crosses his face.
“No,” His voice is strained with irritation, “It’s two in the fucking morning. Go. Back. To. Sleep.”
“I was hungry,” you whine, throwing your hands up in mock surrender. "Is a midnight snack so bad?" you pause, "Well, a 2 am snack..."
“This is the fourth time this week.” He has deep dark circles clinging to his under eyes, the rigorous filming schedules take so much out of him. The microwave beeps and you grab the Hot Pocket.
Immediate regret.
“Shit, fuck. Dammit this bitch is hot as hell!” You whisper curse, “These bad boys get so hot,” He smirks at your obvious discomfort, “Shut it, Tom,” You walk over to where he’s seated, “Just let me finish this one and I won't get up to eat any more Hot Pockets ever again.” You jump up to sit on the table and he places his hand on your thigh, trailing his fingers gently over your skin.
He looks at you wearily and asks, “Promise?” You give a slight smile and agree to his terms. Taking a bite of the Hot Pocket without waiting for it to cool some more isn't a good idea and the roof of your mouth burns, but you don't want to keep him awake any longer. Shoving the rest of it into your mouth, you cough lightly and swallow the burning snack. Sliding off the table, you link my arm with his and drag him out of the chair then down the hall to the bedroom. You hop in bed and he crawls in next to you, arms wrapping around your body and pulling you close. Holding his gaze you smile at his adorable face, it takes everything in you not to melt at the sleep softened look in his eyes. He leans in and places a gentle little kiss on the tip of your nose. You smile and return the favor with a light kiss on his mouth. He pulls away, face wrinkling with disgust.
“God, you taste like those disgusting Hot Pockets.” He glares playfully and you shove his chest, earning him sticking out his tongue at you.
“Dick,” comes your teasing tone “At least I won't taste like them anymore. My late-night Hot Pocket excursions are totally done for!” He lets out a small chuckle and you kiss his forehead, lingering a bit, “Goodnight Tom."
His sleepy voice comes back with a soft, "G’ night, darling. See you in the morning." Smiling at his now peaceful and half-asleep face you start to drift off.
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Two Weeks Later - 5:42 am - In the kitchen
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Footsteps come from the hallway. Swearing, you pick up the last bite of your snack and shove it in your mouth. Turning around to see Tom, you adopt a look of absolute innocence.
“What the actual fuck are you eating now!”
“I’m having a damn microwave burrito, Tom. You never said I couldn't eat those.”
“Fine." If looks could strangle, you would be dead, "No more microwaveable food.”
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Four Days Later - 1:17 am - In the kitchen
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Hearing the door to you and Tom's bedroom open, you grab the scrumptious Eggo Waffle out of the toaster and cram it into your mouth before Tom can see.
“Oh my God. What is it this time?” He says, exasperation colouring his voice, “I swear, I’m going to have to ban you from eating anything at this point.” You turn around with the waffle half sticking out of your mouth and he grits his teeth, “Of-fucking-course you’d find a loophole with what I said.” Quickly swallowing the rest of the toaster waffle you make to open your mouth and argue your point, but he cuts you off, “No. No more microwaveable or toaster foods. I mean it…”
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One Month Later - 3:33 am - In the kitchen
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“I swear to God. If I find a Pop-Tart … or another Hot Pocket in your mouth I will fucking end you.”
Finishing the CapriSun with a fast sip you smirk at him, receiving an equally fiery glare.
“You said no more food, but you never said I couldn't have juice!”