THE WRONG KIND OF TROUBLE

Chapter10

Tom grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from Wes and Liz. It happened so fast, I didn't even get to say goodbye to both of them.

He dragged me toward a darker corner near Cam’s house where his motorcycle was parked under a flickering streetlight. He handed me his helmet like it was nothing.

Tom climbed onto the bike first, then shrugged off his leather jacket and held it out to me.

I squinted at him. "What’s this for?"

He gave me that look—the one that said are you seriously this dumb?

"Look at what you’re wearing, i***t. It’s gonna get cold."

And just like that, my face went red. I slipped into the jacket anyway. Tt was heavy and smelled like it was drenched in alcohol, but for some reason, I swear, my heart was trying to escape my chest. Smiling like an i***t, I climbed on behind him and pulled the helmet on.

Am I dreaming right now? Tom is actually being… sweet Tom? Is this even real?

"Oh—and I might go a little fast," he warned, glancing back at me. "So you better hold on tight unless you wanna fly off."

My face burned again. Great. Blushing... again.

The engine roared to life, echoing in the quiet street. When he hit the road, I instantly realized what he meant by “a little fast.” He wasn’t kidding. The bike shot forward, and the cold air whipped at my face so hard it felt-- like we were about to break the sound barrier. My brain started spitting out all these dumb exaggerations, like we were about to take off and fly, or maybe even catch up to lightning itself.

But honestly? It was kinda thrilling.

I didn’t even think. My arms just wrapped around him tight. The wind froze my legs, but the jacket and the warmth of his back kept me steady. It was crazy and scary and… I didn’t want it to end.

Except, of course, it did.

He slowed down as we reached the apartment, the engine cutting off with a rumble. My legs were still shaky when I got off. Tom didn’t say anything. He just unlocked the door and walked inside like it was no big deal. I followed, clutching his jacket around me, my heart still racing like the ride hadn’t ended at all.

The apartment felt strangely quiet after the chaos of the party. Tom wandered into the kitchen, and I found him sitting at the counter, a can of beer in his hand. The overhead light cast a pale glow on his face, highlighting the bruise along his cheekbone.

I lingered by the doorway for a second before pulling out the chair beside him. He didn’t say anything, just sipped his drink, eyes fixed on the countertop.

"So…" I started, my voice a little too loud for the stillness. "You’re here."

Tom shrugged, finally glancing at me. "Yeah."

I tilted my head, studying the mark on his face. The bruise looked worse under the light, dark and raw. Without thinking, I leaned closer. "That looks painful."

He smirked faintly. "It’s nothing. I'm used to it."

"It doesn’t look like nothing." I got up and rummaged through the freezer, grabbing a small pack of ice. Wrapping it in a clean towel, I placed it gently against his cheek.

Tom flinched slightly but didn’t pull away. His eyes flicked to mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

"You don’t have to—" he began.

"I know," I cut him off softly. "Just… let me."

There was another minute of silence. I didn't know what was happening, but all of a sudden, I felt something rush through me, causing my heart to beat fast. The silence stretched, awkward but different—like something had shifted between us. Neither of us looked away.

Finally, Tom leaned back slightly, breaking the stare. "You’re weird, you know that?" he muttered, his tone lighter this time.

I blinked, caught off guard. "Weird? I just saved your face from swelling like a balloon."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Exactly. Who cares that much? Nobody does that for me."

Something in his voice made me pause. The usual roughness was still there, but softer—like the fight had drained more than just his energy. I set the ice pack down on the counter. "Well… I do."

That earned me a longer look, one that made my stomach twist uncomfortably, in the kind of way that wasn’t really uncomfortable at all.

Tom tapped the can of beer against the counter. "Careful, Sam. People might start thinking you actually like me."

I rolled my eyes, though my cheeks warmed. "Don’t flatter yourself."

He smirked, the kind of smirk that made me unsure if he was joking or not. Then the silence returned, but now it felt different again. It felt... less awkward, more like something unsaid was hanging between us.

From the living room, faint laughter from neighbors drifted in, but in the kitchen, it was just the two of us, sitting too close, saying too little.

Tom tapped his fingers lightly on the counter, pretending to be unfazed, while I tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, suddenly too aware of every sound, every breath. The silence stretched, heavy but charged, until I shifted in my seat.

That’s when it hit me.

I felt something tingly in my stomach. Not the fluttery, butterflies kind. It was sharp—like a painful, electric tingle that stabbed deeper and deeper until my knees gave out. I crouched on the floor, clutching myself.

"Ow," I groaned.

Tom’s head snapped in my direction. He got up from his seat, his eyes wide and his face pale. Without hesitation, he scooped me up like I weighed nothing, carried me to the bed, and laid me down gently, almost too carefully for someone like him.

I curled into myself, fingers pressing against my stomach as though I could push the pain away. But it only grew worse. My breath came out ragged, my cheeks damp with tears.

Tom disappeared for a second, then came rushing back with a glass of water in his hand. He thrust it toward me, his jaw tight. But I shook my head. I couldn’t even think about drinking.

Something was stabbing me from the inside. Was it the baby? Maybe. Or something else? I didn’t know.

One thing’s for sure: I didn’t drink at the party. I barely even ate. Just a nibble or two. Nothing should be causing this.

"What’s wrong with you?!" Tom growled, his voice sharper than I expected.

I glared back through blurry tears. "I don’t know, Tom! I don’t know!!"

The pain tore through me again, ripping another cry out of my throat. I twisted and turned, arching my back, curling into a ball, stretching out — anything to make it stop. It felt like cramps, but ten times worse, like someone was twisting a knife inside me.

Tom cursed under his breath. "f**k! You just got me sober!" His hands tore through his messy hair as he paced the room. He bit at the side of his palm, his sneakers tapping anxiously against the floor.

"f**k. f**k. Fuck." He muttered the word like it was the only thing holding him together.

I wanted to snap at him, call him a bastard, tell him he should be thanking me that at least he wouldn’t wake up with a hangover. But the pain was too much; I could barely think straight.

"Just call my mom!" I scowled, pressing my hand against my stomach.

Minutes dragged on like hours. Maybe five, maybe ten. Agony blurred my sense of time. Tom leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes locked on me like he was waiting for me to break in half. His foot kept tapping the floor, quick and restless, as he listened to the phone ringing on the other line.

"Noone's answering," his voice cracked.

It was understandable. My parents are probably asleep by now, given that it's already 3:00 AM.

Slowly, the pain began to fade. Not instantly, but enough to let me sit up. Tom was beside me, watching closely, his chest rising and falling like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

"What was that about?" he finally asked, exhaling a long, heavy sigh.

I shrugged weakly. "I don’t know. But it was… painful."

"I told you not to go drinking," he snapped, his voice rough.

"I didn’t!" I shot back, wincing as a small wave of pain flickered in my stomach. Then, without warning, he bent down until his face was just inches from me.

My eyebrow arched. "Uh… what are you doing?"

"Don’t worry," he whispered, so soft I almost thought I imagined it. "Daddy’s going to take care of you."

My heart stumbled. Did Tom Miller—the guy who picks fights like it’s a sport—just say that? My face heated instantly, and I coughed to cover it up.

Tom jerked back, scratching the back of his neck like nothing happened. He headed for the doorway. "Cover yourself up, i***t. The baby probably got a cold, that’s why he got pissed off and kicked the s**t out of your ovary."

I blinked. Then snickered. "Wait… did you just say ‘he’? How do you know it’s going to be a ‘he’?"

"I just know, you i***t," he shot back, his ears going red.

"You’re being sexist, you know," I teased, giggling.

"Shut up. It’s a ‘he.’ End of story."

I couldn’t help laughing. "And here I thought you hated the idea of being the baby’s dad. You literally protested to my parents that it wasn’t you. But here you are, already picking out the gender."

Tom froze. His jaw tightened. And his ears? Bright red.

"Oh, f**k you," he muttered, gripping the doorknob. "I'm gonna go smoke," he said before leaving the room, shutting the door.

I lay back against the bed, pulling the Spider-Man bedsheet over me. My eyes traced the peach-colored ceiling, my lips curved into an unshakable smile.

Tom’s words replayed in my head, making me blush all over again. The sweetness, the awkwardness, the way he accidentally let his guard down… It made my stomach twist in a whole new way.

But then Cameron’s face cut through the memory, and the guilt of it all crashed back in. I groaned into my pillow. Why did my brain have to ruin everything?