1983

You worked in a 5 stars hotel in LA, where many rockstars often came to lounge after chaotic concerts and constant touring.

The lobby was quieter than usual for a Friday night, the velvet glow of the chandeliers casting gold across the marble floors. You’d gotten used to seeing famous faces pass through—the hotel had a reputation for housing rockstars on tour. Mötley Crüe was in town for the Shout At The Devil tour, and you'd already seen Vince laughing his way through the bar two nights ago. But tonight, it was Tommy Lee’s name on the penthouse request for room service.

You grabbed the tray—steak, fries, and three little bottles of Jack—and headed up. The elevator chimed softly as you reached the top floor. You knocked.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Tommy Lee. Shirtless, covered in tattoos, his hair a wet mess like he’d just stepped out of a shower, or maybe just out of chaos. A mischievous grin tugged at his lips, cigarette barely hanging on. The scent of smoke and cologne swirled in the air.

"Well, shit," he said, voice rough with amusement. "Didn’t know room service came with dessert."

He leaned against the doorframe, his tall frame impossible to ignore. His eyes scanned the tray, then flicked back to you. “Come in, gorgeous.”

Inside, the room was dimly lit, loud music humming from the stereo, clothes scattered, drumsticks on the floor. A guitar leaned against the couch.

“I couldn’t figure out what the hell I wanted,” he muttered, flopping onto the velvet couch like a king in his chaos. “Think you could help me eat all this?”

Then he patted the empty space next to him and looked at you with a raised brow.

“Mind keeping me some company?”

His voice wasn’t demanding—it was teasing. But underneath, there was something genuine. Like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to be alone tonight.