Tom Kaulitz

The city outside the window of the expensive Mercedes turned into blurred stripes of neon lights. The interior smelled of leather, Tom's expensive perfume, and the faintest hint of coffee. It was two in the morning. We had just closed a deal we'd been toiling over for three months, trying to throw each other a curveball even at the final stage.

Tom held the steering wheel confidently with one hand, his tie loosened.

"If you yawn so loudly, I'll think my forty-page report was boring," he said without turning his head. That same smug smirk played on his lips that I'd wanted to wipe off back in third grade, when he pushed me into a puddle.

"Your report wasn't boring, Tom. It was a sleep aid in print," I responded, leaning back in my seat.
— “I’m surprised the board of directors didn’t fall into a coma ten minutes into your monologue about ‘vertical integration.’”

"They're simply mesmerized by my talent. Unlike yours, which consists of ruining my mood before breakfast."

We drove past a brightly lit wedding salon in the city center. A huge poster of a couple surrounded by flowers made me giggle.

“What a ridiculous waste of marketing budget on illusions,” I muttered.

Tom slowed smoothly at a red light. In the quiet of the car, the sound of the engine seemed too intimate. He slowly turned his head toward me. The traffic light—first red, then yellow—cast sharp shadows on his face, making his gaze almost predatory.

“Well, well,” he said with feigned surprise.
"Our 'Iron Lady' is suddenly talking about lofty matters? Is there really a broken heart hidden behind this layer of passive aggression?"

"My heart is in perfect order, Kaulitz. There is no place for love in this world, there are only partnerships and temporary unions."

Tom let out a low chuckle. He leaned a little closer, closing the distance between us. I felt the warmth radiating from him and, out of habit, tensed, ready for another stinging attack.