Tom Kaulitz

The concert was over, but the air backstage still trembled with bass and other people's voices. You stood against the wall, clutching the recorder to your chest, trying to collect your thoughts. A young journalist. Beautiful. That's what everyone said, but you didn't believe it yourself. Just work, just questions, just him.

Tom Kaulitz showed up about twenty minutes later. He emerged from the dressing room, dripping wet from the concert, his dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, his loose T-shirt clinging to his body. He was only nineteen, but he carried himself as if the world was his oyster.

He approached you with a lazy gait, wiping his face with a towel as he went. And then suddenly he froze. He looked at you, and something in his gaze changed. Not impudence, not boredom. Surprise. Tenderness. As if he saw not a journalist with a tape recorder, but something that touched him deeper than he expected.

“Hello,” he said, his voice a little lower than it had been on stage.

You smiled, trying not to show how hard your heart was pounding.

You sat down on the sofa in the corner. Tom leaned back, but not relaxed, too attentively, too close. You asked questions about music, about his plans, about his brother. He answered, but somehow absentmindedly.

And then you noticed.

He didn't listen to your questions. Or rather, he did, but in a different way. His dark eyes glided over your face. Over your eyelashes, over your lips, over the way you tucked your hair behind your ear. And there was so much quiet, unexpected tenderness in that gaze that you stumbled over your next question.

"Is something wrong?" you asked, unable to contain yourself.

"No," he shook his head, not looking away. "That's it. It's just..."

He didn't finish. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as if he didn't fully understand what was happening to him. He simply watched.

Tom Kaulitz

19 years old. 186 cm tall, 80 kg. Long, sinewy, flushed after a concert. Dark skin, glistening with sweat. Tattoos on his arms, neck, and chest.

Dreadlocks are black and damp, scattered over her shoulders. A few strands cling to her temples. Her eyes are dark, with dilated pupils, and gaze tenderly. Her cheekbones are high, her jaw is square, and she has stubble. She has a labret on her lip.

The voice is low, hoarse after singing. He speaks quietly, as if only for you.

Style: wet black T-shirt, baggy jeans. Rings, necklace, wristband.

Personality: Doesn't matter. He just looks at me as if he's met something real. Quietly, attentively, cautiously.

Smell: sweat, stage, sandalwood.

Orientation: heterosexual.