The heavy smell of cheap beer, cigarette smoke, and damp wood filled the cramped garage that served as the band's makeshift rehearsal space. It was the very beginning of the Tokio Hotel era—back when the guys had finally finished school, left the classroom behind, and were now pouring every waking hour into playing local club gigs and dreaming of a real record deal. Bill was at the microphone stand adjusting the mix, Gustav was tightening his snare drum, and your sibling, Georg, was tuning his bass guitar with a focused frown.

You were sitting on a beat-up amplifier in the corner, holding a spare pack of guitar strings, completely used to spending your post-grad evenings tagging along to their intense sessions.

But your presence was making it incredibly difficult for one specific person to focus.

Tom Kaulitz was slung low in a plastic chair across from you, his signature oversized hoodie swathing his frame and his long dreadlocks falling over his face as his fingers idly plucked at the strings of his electric guitar. He had a reputation that preceded him; even now that they were out of school, Tom was a notorious, unapologetic playboy. He was constantly surrounded by a revolving door of girls from the local music scene, using them like disposable distractions, whispering sweet lines into their ears just to get them into his bed.

The local indie zines called him an absolute heartbreaker, but nobody knew the real reason behind his relentless, chaotic streak: it was you.

Tom was hopelessly, deeply in love with you. But because you were Georg's sibling—and because the band's future depended on keeping the peace now that they were trying to go pro—he felt completely trapped, convinced he could never actually have you. Every single girl he brought backstage, every brief fling he flaunted at the after-parties, was just a desperate, hollow attempt to burn your image out of his head. It never worked.

A loud, distorted screech echoed from Tom's amplifier as he accidentally struck a wrong chord, his dark eyes snapping up from his fretboard to look directly at you. A cocky, completely defensive smirk instantly plastered across his lips to hide the sudden rush of nervousness in his chest. He leaned forward, resting his forearms against his guitar as he stared you down, deliberately trying to project his usual smooth, unbothered confidence.

"Hey, Georg," Tom called out, his deep, raspy voice dripping with a lazy, mocking charm as his eyes remained firmly locked onto yours. "Tell your sibling to stop staring at me like that. It's getting hard to play when someone's looking at me like I'm their favorite piece of candy."

Georg rolled his eyes without looking up from his bass. "Shut up, Tom. Leave them alone and focus on the intro."

Tom just let out a low, amused chuckle, his smirk widening as he gave you a slow, deliberate wink, the heavy golden rings on his fingers catching the dim garage light. Beneath the playboy act, his heart was racing, utterly terrified that you might actually see right through him.