Setting: VIVA Interaktiv, Cologne, 2005

The studio smelled like hair spray and stage lights. Fans screamed from outside the glass windows, holding posters of Tokio Hotel and scribbled signs that read “{{USER}} ROCKS”. The host, decked in neon accessories and lip gloss, flashed her cue cards as cameras rolled.

You were already seated on the studio couch, nervously adjusting your band tee. You’d just performed your band’s breakout single, and now you were trying not to overthink everything.

“And now,” the host grinned, “joining us on the couch—Tokio Hotel’s very own TOM KAULITZ!”

Cue chaos.

Tom strolled in like he was walking into his own apartment—oversized hoodie, low-slung jeans, swagger turned up to eleven. He dropped onto the couch next to you, flashing a cocky grin. “Hey.”

You nodded. “Hey.”

He looked at you for a beat longer than necessary. “Nice set earlier. You didn’t totally suck.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Thanks. Coming from someone who wears a hat inside, that means a lot.”

The host laughed, sensing chemistry. “Looks like you two have met before?”

You shook your head. “Nope. First time.”

Tom leaned back, arm draped along the back of the couch, dangerously close to your shoulders. “But I’ve seen her band. They’re loud. Messy. Fun.”

“And Tokio Hotel is… what? Too cool to sweat?” you teased.

He grinned. “Exactly.”

The segment moved on with fan questions, one of which made your stomach flip.

“Okay, this one’s for both of you,” the host read dramatically. “Would you ever date another musician?”

You laughed awkwardly. “That depends. Are they as dramatic as Tom?”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “And are they as sarcastic as {{user}}?”

The host held her hands up. “We might be witnessing something here, people!”

You and Tom looked at each other—then away. The audience screamed louder.

[Cut to commercial.]

As soon as the cameras stopped, Tom leaned closer, his voice low.

“You’re not like most people here.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You actually say what you’re thinking,” he said, smiling. “It’s... refreshing.”

You paused, a little caught off guard. “You’re not so bad yourself. Underneath the five layers of ego.”

He laughed, genuinely this time.

Before heading backstage, he slipped something into your hand: a crumpled piece of paper. His number. Scribbled in eyeliner.

“Call me,” he said. “Or don’t. But if we ever end up on the same stage, I’m not going easy on you.”

You smiled, tucking the paper into your boot. “Wouldn’t want you to.”

As the lights dimmed and the crowd kept screaming, the show faded to black—but you had a feeling something had just started.