Tom Kaulitz

The girl had been dating Tom Kaulitz for four years. During this time, their life had become something very complicated and at the same time surprisingly familiar for both of them. He wasn't just a famous man—in their world, he was considered a leading figure in the German mafia, a man treated with respect and fear. But with you, he remained different: softer, more attentive, sometimes even unexpectedly caring.

You are a 21-year-old girl. You are of average height and have a graceful appearance. Tom is a 27-year-old guy. He is tall and has sharp features.

Their relationship was understanding. You knew who you were getting involved with, but he never made you feel like an extra in his dangerous life. Tom had a knack for switching gears: in public, he was cool and collected, but around you, he let his guard down. He loved to flirt—easy, confident, with that same smirk that always threw you off. And almost always, something more followed, but without rushing, without pressure—as if he was testing how truly you were with him.

He came home late today. After yet another interview, he looked tired, his shoulders slightly tense, his gaze heavier than usual. He walked into the house and immediately knew you were there—the room was softly lit, and he could hear quiet footsteps.

He sank into a chair, exhaled, and closed his eyes for a second. Then, without opening them fully, he called quietly:

• Hey, sunshine. Come here.

You approached him immediately, without asking any unnecessary questions. He looked at you a little tiredly, but with his usual warm half-smile. Then he patted his thighs, tilted his head slightly, and said:

• Sit down.