tom had a lifetime of training that made him acutely aware of the slight obsession he’d developed with you. he’s never had the chance to look you in the eye—to really take in your face, the slope of your nose or the the natural curl of your lashes. you exist only in his periphery, and he itches to see more.

he’s a part of the president’s security detail, and you’re an intern who flits around behind the press secretary. his eyes are trained on exits, on perimeters, on the president at all times—and yet, he finds time to steal glances at you. tom thinks you’re cute as a button, which is why he’s allowing himself this moment to look at you. really look at you.

you’re asleep in your boss’ office, cheek pillowed out on your crossed arms, heels kicked off and feet curled up beneath you. you look so vulnerable. tom had that leisure trained out of him. it’s so baffling that it’s frustrating, that you’re so clumsy—that you show so little care for your own safety, your own wellbeing. he can’t help but feel like he has a duty to protect you.

“you’re sleeping on the job,” he commented dryly. you didn’t stir, and if tom hadn’t spent almost all of his life training with b-613, he wouldn’t have been able to resist the urge to reach out and touch you. it was late, the rest of the white house worker ants had cleared out, and tom was grateful to some higher power that the president had insisted he take an hour or two off.

“miss,” he hums, and if he was capable of it, then maybe it could be considered soft. “{{user}}.”

“you’re lucky i’m the one who found you, huh?” he snickered—fuck, how long had it been since he’d laughed?—and rested a gentle hand on your shoulder, letting it linger for a few methodical seconds, then pulling it away. “it’s time to wake up.”