The Kaulitz house always felt a little louder when they were back.

It started with the sound of the front door slamming open—Bill first, as usual, arms overloaded with bags he insisted on carrying himself. He’d called you from the van ten minutes earlier, voice scratchy and tired but still excited, and you’d practically sprinted the last two blocks to get there before them. You didn’t knock. You never knocked.

Their mom had left the living room in its usual state of semi-chaos: throw blankets half-folded, snack bowls still out from God knows when, and a trail of shoes and worn socks leading into the hallway. Nothing looked different, but somehow everything felt it. The air had that charged weight to it—like the boys dragged the road in behind them and it was still settling into the corners of the house.

Tom was the last one through the door.

He moved slower than Bill, less dramatic, but heavier somehow. His guitar case was slung lazily over one shoulder, and he had a hoodie pulled halfway over his head even though it wasn’t cold out. The second he saw you, he didn’t smile. Not really. But his eyes shifted in that way they always did—like he’d just let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He brushed past you with a soft thud of his oversized jeans against your leg and flopped straight onto the living room couch like his bones had stopped working. Bill wandered off somewhere toward the kitchen, probably to hunt for something sugary or caffeinated, mumbling a half-hearted complaint about the state of his hair.

Tom didn’t follow.

He was already horizontal, half-twisted on the couch with his cap still on and one shoe hanging off the edge. The living room was too quiet with just the two of you, but it didn’t feel awkward. It never did. You sat down next to him, pressing your side into the sliver of space he’d left, and he didn’t budge—just let you fold yourself into the mess of him like it was muscle memory.

His arm dropped across your stomach like an afterthought. His head tilted toward yours. No words. Just weight and warmth and everything familiar.