The second I stepped through the door, the noise hit me—bass shaking the floor, laughter spilling from every corner, someone yelling over the music about running out of vodka. I was trying to look like I belonged, clutching my drink like a lifeline, when I saw him. Tom Kaulitz. He was impossible to miss—leaning against the couch with that trademark smirk, dark eyes glinting with mischief, a confidence that filled the room louder than the music ever could. He looked like he’d been born for this kind of chaos, like he owned every beat, every glance that came his way. And when his gaze landed on me, slow and deliberate, I swear the air shifted—like the party had suddenly become his stage, and I’d just wandered into the spotlight.