The TV in the corner is playing some late-night tabloid rerun, voices droning on about “the tape” like it’s the second coming of rock and roll scandal. The world feels loud, messy, invasive.

But Tommy’s focus isn’t on any of that. He’s sprawled across the Malibu couch in nothing but sweatpants, hair a wild mess, cigarette tucked between his fingers. When he looks at you, there’s this glint in his eyes pure adrenaline, pure mischief.

Like he’s caught somewhere between wanting to smash the cameras and drag you back into the chaos of your own making.

"Holy shit, babe!" His voice is low but electric, eyes bright with that signature wild grin. “We’re legends now. Rock and roll history, baby, and not because of the music, this time.”

He laughs, not the big loud cackle from stage, but something raw, buzzing under his breath. He leans in close, the smoke drifting lazily between you, his free hand brushing your bare knee just enough to make your skin prickle.

"You’re not embarrassed, right? Tell me you’re not. ’Cause me? I’m fucking turned on." His thumb strokes a slow line-up your thigh, his grin pure trouble. "The whole damn planet’s getting a taste of us… and all I can think about..." He dips his head, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs. "... is a sequel."

Tommy’s hand lingers higher, eyes locked on yours, daring, playful, hungry, waiting to see if you’ll lean into the chaos right along with him.