Chapter Text
Three thirty in the afternoon, that's what his digital clock showed. Sometimes he wondered what this strange obsession with timing people was all about. He had always been punctual, perhaps too much so. It was a rule deeply ingrained in him that he always forced himself to follow, but he had to admit that being at the places where he was summoned with plenty of time to spare was entirely his fault, but that didn't mean he didn't take advantage of opportunities.
When his favorite caramel latte arrived, he sighed with pleasure at the sight of it on his table, perfectly positioned next to his laptop, steaming at the ideal temperature and ready to be savored delicately, careful not to burn his tongue as had happened repeatedly. It wasn't that he minded it, but the sensation of losing his sense of taste until the next day was anything but pleasant.
He glanced at the screen directly in front of him. A few more pages of the chapter and it could be his fifth bestseller of the books he wrote, the ones that provided him with enough to eat, afford a few luxuries, and have his own apartment in a building tall enough so that the city's noise wouldn't bother him when he needed it. But of course, he couldn't afford to isolate himself too much; he needed people around him so that the social interactions he described in his fantasy novels would be as human as possible. Because even though his fantastical stories captivated many and he had a whole fan club in America and Europe, he liked to add realistic touches to his works.
And what did this solitary writer have to offer the world? Fantastic tales of gods and warriors in a realm among the stars, ruled by Odin, the father of all, with his brave children and fascinating stories, although he focused more on the latter and on the maternal figure, whom he liked to explore at length in his books. Who would have thought that this man in his thirties, with dark hair neatly slicked back, eyes as blue as the sea, and dressed in a tailored black suit, was the author of stories that have captivated thousands of children and young people in search of adventure, in their quest for an escape from reality?
At 3:40 in the afternoon, the man brought his coffee cup to his face and inhaled the bittersweet aroma of his favorite coffee. He took a sip, undoubtedly the perfect flavor and temperature of a good coffee, and by the love of all the gods, how he loved that coffee. Almost as much as he loved writing his stories, where he liked to give credit to his very well-developed imagination. Sometimes he almost swore they could be memories, but things like that only came from stories invented by old ladies trying to lull their grandchildren to sleep centuries ago.
At 3:50 in the afternoon, just ten minutes from his scheduled appointment, no one had approached him except the waiter who always served him and offered him his best smiles. He could swear that he had charmed him with his beauty, his elegance, and his way of speaking. And who wouldn't? Although, of course, he didn't use those skills much because he believed that what he had to say, what he had to write, had to be of vital importance to his profession, not just his charms or his talents. At this point, he managed to finish three complete pages, just a couple more to go.
At 3:55 p.m., the café door opened and a beautiful woman walked in. It wasn't as if other customers hadn't left and more hadn't entered, but he was so engrossed in timing himself and writing his wise words that he didn't know why he looked up at the entrance and thanked time, space, and his body's natural reaction for doing so.
The woman glanced at her phone and then looked around the café as if searching for someone. She was perhaps around his age, with dyed blonde hair and dark roots that captivated him. He'd met many women with dyed, bleached, or well-styled hair, but they all looked so unnatural, and on her, everything looked perfectly arranged. Her slender figure, the perfect height for a delicate lady, her pastel pink blouse with ruffled sleeves and a black skirt that fell just below her knees, clinging to her body, simple black heels, How could something so simple look so magnificent?
He had described love at first sight in his books before, but he was almost certain he had never experienced it himself, until now. Well, he wasn't entirely sure if he could call it "love at first sight," but he was captivated by the sight of this perfect woman, and when she looked up at him, he swore he stopped breathing for at least a few seconds, and then he snapped out of it when she stood at the table across from him.
"Good afternoon, you must be Mr. Hiddleston, am I correct?" she asked, looking at him curiously, hoping she wasn't mistaken.
"Yes, that's right, miss," he rose from his seat, being as polite as his head allowed. He had just met her and couldn't ruin things by saying anything that would make her uncomfortable.
"I take it you're my date," he extended his hand to greet her, and she took it with ease.
“Excuse me, I’m Sophia Di Martino, and I’m here for an interview for the New York Times.” With those green eyes and that warm voice, he really would have to control himself if he wanted her to see him again after the interview.
“Of course, please have a seat. I was expecting you.”
“I see you’ve already ordered something,” she said, looking at the coffee, which was already half full. “Was I late? I understand you always like to arrive before the agreed-upon time.”
“Not at all,” he smiled. “Please excuse my bad habit of arriving early. I’m glad you were almost as punctual as I was, and if I may, I recommend you order the same. Believe me, you won’t regret it.”
“I’ll take you up on that, then.”
He called over the waiter who always served him and ordered the same coffee with caramel and some shortbread cookies on the side.
“Alright, Mr. Hiddleston, I think we can begin if you’re okay with that. I take it you’re in the final stages of your new book, aren’t you?”
“Tom, call me Tom, please. There’s no need to be so formal.” He smiled at her again but looked away so as not to intimidate her too much. He wanted her to trust him.
“It’s fine with me. If you call me Sophia, that’s fine too. I still find it a bit difficult how formal British people can be when interviewing them.” She took a strand of his hair and tucked it behind his ear.
Was she subtly flirting with him, or was it just his imagination? Generally, when interviewing women, they always try to flirt in a not-so-subtle way, and although he tries not to be rude, he has been annoyed by certain liberties American women take. But with Sophia, he truly couldn’t have been more delighted.
At 4:45 p.m., the interview had concluded. There were no more questions about his latest book, and the empty cups and the plate of cookies, with only two left, sat on the table. The waiter came to clear the plates, and as always, Tom left him a generous tip, which he acknowledged with a shy smile.
"Very good choice of place, I've never been here before," the blonde suddenly remarked.
"It's one of my favorite places. It helps me think, and it's easy for me to write here. Even when it's crowded, I feel very comfortable."
"Anyone who heard that would think you don't like being alone."
He considered for a moment what her next words would be. His feeling of loneliness wasn't something he'd want to share with someone who was willing to expose it to the world like that.
"I never turn down good company."
Sophia packed everything she had used for the interview into a briefcase she was carrying, and something appeared in her field of vision that made her look straight ahead and stop what she was doing.
"What's that?" she asked, puzzled.
"It's my personal number, in case you ever need me," he smiled and looked directly at her, trying to make her understand his intentions of seeing her again without work being involved.
She just laughed. She finished putting her things in her briefcase, took the piece of paper politely, and stood up from the table.
"Thank you for your time. My work here is finished, and the truth is, I don't..."
"Please don't misunderstand me, and certainly don't think badly of me," said Tom, standing up as well. He had to do something quickly if he wanted to see her again. "I haven't had such an interesting conversation in a long time, and that's why I'd like to see you again."
"So, is this just to talk, or do you have other intentions?" the woman said in an angry tone.
"I'd like to talk, or do you have other intentions with me?" "I'd just like to have a conversation with you, Sophia, that doesn't involve work."
"I don't mix my social life with work, nor do I get involved with my colleagues." With that, Tom can't help but laugh.
"Technically, we don't work together."
Tom's cell phone rings, interrupting their conversation. Looking at the screen, he sees it's a call from his best friend and editor, presumably asking if his manuscript is ready for review.
"Looks like we're done."
"Unfortunately, yes. Have a good afternoon, Miss." He gives a small bow, looking down.
"Likewise."
Sophia practically runs out of the café, and as she steps outside, Tom has no choice but to answer his call.
"I hope your interruption has a very good reason, Owen. I might have lost the opportunity of a lifetime because of you."
"Yes, I'm fine, Tom, thanks for asking," replies the voice of her friend and editor, Owen Wilson, on the other end of the phone.
"It's almost ready, and maybe it already is, if you didn't call me every two days."
"I have to do my job. You missed the deadline for the first time, and I don't want it to become a habit."
"It won't."
A taxi pulls up in front of the café, and Sophia gets in to go to her apartment. She grabs her phone and texts her roommate that she'll be there in 20 minutes, traffic permitting. She looked out the window and felt foolish for rejecting such an elegant man as Tom Hiddleston, but she had her dignity. She couldn't simply accept the company of any man who crossed her path. How could she possibly trust them? The few times she'd dated someone, they'd all been failures. She'd even once thought she was truly in love, but she'd only been used and then dumped for another woman with better attributes than hers.
She opened her hand and took the crumpled piece of paper she'd been clutching tightly and entered the number in her contacts, just in case they ever sent her to meet with him again and she couldn't reach him. That was the only reason, of course. She couldn't deny that his formality, his British accent, and the gentlemanly manner of Tom Hiddleston had somehow pleased her. She'd never been treated like that by a man before, but if he hadn't made such a pass at her, perhaps she wouldn't be as angry as she was now.
“All men are the same,” would be the words of her friend and confidante Sasha, with whom she shared the apartment. A smile spread across her face, and she put her phone in her bag. She glanced ahead, noticing the taxi had been stopped for several minutes, just to make sure she wasn't stuck in traffic. Since it was going to take longer to get there, she thought about the pizzeria on the ground floor of her building and what combination she could order before going up to her apartment and sharing a girls' night in with her friend.
The writer left the café with his things and put them in the back seat of his car. When he got in, he slammed the door shut, even checking it for damage because he felt he'd been too rough with her belongings. “Sorry,” he murmured, as if the car could hear him, and drove to her apartment.
Getting out of the covered parking garage, his phone rang again, and when she saw who it was on the screen, he immediately hung up. He wasn't in the mood to deal with people he tried every day to distance herself from. Why couldn't they leave him alone? He'd made things perfectly clear on his last visit; he didn't want to force things any further than necessary.
Upon entering his apartment and placing his keys and car keys on the small table in the entryway, he simply sighed and stood there contemplating the silence and emptiness that enveloped him upon arriving in his humble abode. It wasn't that he disliked solitude, only that sometimes it could become your worst enemy. He went to his room, took a shower, changed his clothes, poured himself a glass of juice in the kitchen, and put a frozen dinner in the microwave, which would be ready in 10 minutes.
While he waited for his dinner to cook, since he wasn't in the mood to cook or prepare anything else, he opened his laptop and went to the Google website. He stared at the search bar for several seconds, wondering if he should continue or simply erase that memory from his mind and carry on with his life as before. But life is too short not to take risks. He placed the pointer over the search bar and began to type.
“Sophia Di Martino”
The results were impressive.