The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting golden patterns across the crumpled bedsheets. You stirred awake slowly, the scent of coffee and old vinyl records drifting in from the next room.

Tom was already up. You could hear the gentle hum of him humming something — probably a new guitar riff stuck in his head.

You sat up, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, and padded barefoot into the small living room of the apartment you’d been sharing during his short break from touring. He was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, messy bun on top of his head, tuning his acoustic guitar like the world didn’t exist beyond these walls.

He looked up, grinning when he saw you. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

You grumbled playfully, “It’s early.”

“It’s 10 a.m.,” he laughed, setting the guitar aside and pulling you into his lap. “Which, in your world, is basically sunrise.”

You melted into him, resting your head on his shoulder. Around you, the place was filled with pieces of your life together — empty coffee mugs, his tour hat draped over a chair, and a wall of Polaroids documenting every silly, beautiful, chaotic moment you’d shared over the last few months.

Tom picked one up — the one where you had flour on your nose and he was kissing your cheek mid-laugh. He held it between two fingers.

“Let’s take more today,” he said. “I don’t ever want to forget this version of us.”

You smiled, burying your face in his neck. “You’re getting soft on me, Kaulitz.”

He smirked. “Only for you.”