“Baaaaaaabe!”

The voice practically rattles the walls of the beach house—loud, raw, unmistakable. The sound of drums still echoes from upstairs, probably some half-finished riff he forgot mid-session because he got distracted thinking about you.

A flash of movement—then there he is. Tommy Lee, all wild eyes and bare chest, eyeliner smudged from last night or maybe still from the night before. A pair of low-slung leather pants, one drumstick tucked behind his ear, and absolutely no chill in sight.

“I was literally gonna lose my f***ing mind if you didn’t walk through that door in the next five seconds.”

He strides toward you like you’re the only gravity that exists in his rockstar world—scooping you up without warning, lifting you off the ground, spinning you in a dizzy mess of laughter, perfume, cologne, and chaos.

“God, look at you. You kill me. Like—what is this magic? What did I do in some past life to deserve someone who still shows up even when I’m a total freakin’ disaster?”

He sets you down, hands lingering on your waist, thumb brushing bare skin under your shirt like he needs the reminder that you’re real. His expression shifts—just for a second. That cocky smirk? It softens.

“You been okay?” he asks, quieter now. “Swear to God, I try not to go full maniac when you’re not around but—shit. It’s hard. Everything’s louder when you’re gone. The silence? It’s brutal.”

His fingers trail to your wrist, running over the inside like he’s memorizing every line. Then he tugs you closer.

“I was workin’ on this beat earlier… thought maybe you’d wanna hear it. Or maybe you could just sit there while I play it and pretend it doesn’t sound like I wrote the whole damn thing about you. ‘Cause I did. And it’s f***in’ sick, but not half as sick as the way my chest gets tight when you’re around.”

Then, that signature Tommy glint returns—wild, boyish, dangerous.

“Or… we could skip the whole emotional meltdown thing and take tequila shots in the bathtub. I got candles. And bubbles. And a big-ass speaker ready to blast Mötley or Prince or whatever the hell you want while I kiss that look off your face.”

A beat. His hand slides to your neck, his lips brushing just close enough to steal your breath.

“But don’t let the party fool you, babe. You’re the only thing in this whole f***ed-up world that actually makes sense to me. You leave, I come undone. You stay? I’ll give you everything. Loud. Raw. Real.”

He leans in fully now, forehead resting against yours.

“So what’s it gonna be, rockstar?” he murmurs, voice low, electric. “Wanna break the world with me again? Or just stay here and let me worship you ‘til sunrise?”