Tom x female reader where they are both in the wrong place, drugs, cigarettes both have a bad influence on each other but at the same time they can't live without each other

ADDICTED | TOM KAULITZ

TW: TOXIC RELATIONSHIP AND HEAVY USE OF DRUGS

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you met tom in a bathroom, of all places. it was 3:43 a.m., the tiles were sticky, and the music from the club throbbed through the walls like a pulse you couldn’t escape. he stood under the flickering light, dreadlocks tied back, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes hooded and unreadable.

you were there with someone else. he was too. but none of it mattered once your eyes met.

“got a light?” you asked, holding up your cigarette even though you already had a lighter in your purse.

“only if you give me a drag.” he replied, and that was the beginning of the end.

it started with smoke breaks. sharing joints outside of afterparties, fingers brushing, eyes lingering. you talked about nothing and everything — music, pain, childhood memories that still hurt when you pressed too hard. he told you about nights on the road that blurred into each other, about the pressure, the emptiness, the silence between the noise. you listened like it mattered.

he liked the way you didn’t care. you liked the way he made you feel seen, even when you were disappearing.

the drugs came after that. it was slow.

you didn’t even know what it was — some off-brand benzo he got from a friend of a friend. tom held it out to you between his fingers, smirking like it was candy.

“just one,” he said, “we don’t have to do anything else. just float.”

you were in the back of a cab, legs tangled in his, some song humming from the stereo, your heart already beating a little too fast from the night. you’d spent the evening drinking cheap whiskey in a club that pulsed like it had a heartbeat. the world was blurry around the edges. he’d kissed you in the bathroom stall, hands on your hips, teeth dragging across your throat like he needed you to survive.

you took the pill with a swig of something sweet and bitter.

he kissed your forehead like you’d done something holy.

you ended up in a motel that night — one of those off-the-highway ones with neon signs buzzing through the window and cigarette burns in the blankets.

you never remembered how you got there.

but you remembered the way it felt.

you laughed for hours — at nothing. at everything. he told you stories that made no sense, and you told him your secrets like they didn’t hurt. your limbs were jelly, warm and loose, and you melted into him like the whole world had finally stopped demanding anything from you.

he pulled you into his lap, fingers trailing up your spine, mouth dragging lazy kisses down your neck.

“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured, “like a dream.”

you made love slow.

then fast.

then again and again, like your bodies were the only way to stay awake.

you fell asleep with his hand between your thighs and your head on his chest, giggling like teenagers in the dark.

and for a moment, everything was perfect.

—

the pills came more often after that.

blue ones, pink ones, ones you didn’t name anymore.

you danced through clubs like you owned them — him behind you, his hands on your waist, your hair stuck to your neck with sweat. everything tasted like freedom.

you’d sneak out the back doors of shows, lips on fire, pockets full of little escapes.

you’d kiss in elevators, laugh until you cried, scream at each other in the rain and make up under flickering motel lights.

you were reckless.

gorgeous.

untouchable.

people called you dangerous.

people called you addicts.

you called it love.

because it was — wasn’t it?

love in a capsule.

in a mirror.

in a song you couldn’t remember the next day.

you wrote your names into the walls of every place you stayed.

you carved your initials into the night like you could make it stay.

but it didn’t.

it never does.

—

then, nights after those, someone passed him a little baggie, and he turned to you like he needed your permission.

“you cool with this?”

you nodded. you always nodded. you both stopped asking questions after that.

so that was the first time you snorted it with him, running back to his house and doing it off a scratched-up mirror on the coffee table at his house, between an empty bottle of vodka and an overflowing ashtray. the lights were low. the tv played something no one was watching. your heart was already a little broken before the powder even hit your bloodstream.

“you sure?” tom asked, thumb brushing your knuckles. he looked fucked up already, pupils wide, lip caught between his teeth.

you nodded. maybe you weren’t sure, but he was your anchor, and if he was sinking, you were going down with him.

you watched him cut two lines, slow and careful. his hands were steady — like he’d done this before. too many times.

you leaned in and did it quick, sharp. it burned. your nose stung, your eyes watered, but then the rush hit, and suddenly the world didn’t weigh so much.

he leaned back, watching you with that crooked little grin. the one that made your chest ache.

“see?” he said, voice low. “not so bad, right?”

it became your ritual after that. bad day? a line. an argument? a line. celebration? a line.

you stopped looking for reasons. it just became part of the rhythm — like kissing, like fighting, like sleeping with the blinds closed because neither of you could stand the light.

—

you knew things had gone too far the first time you watched the needle sink into his arm. there was no music playing. no noise. just silence — loud, thick, and cruel.

you sat across from him on the floor, legs folded beneath you, trembling as he tied off his arm with the drawstring from your hoodie. his lips were chapped, hands steady, eyes far away.

“tom.” you whispered. you didn’t even know what you wanted to say. just his name. just something to keep him here, now, with you.

he looked up for half a second. his eyes were glassy. “don’t freak out, baby. it’s just once. just to take the edge off.”

but you both knew better and it wasn’t just once.

the first time he gave you heroin, he was gentle. he held your face in his hands and kissed your forehead before he slid the needle into your vein. you didn’t want to feel it, but god, when it hit? it was like drowning and floating all at once. the world got quiet. your bones stopped aching.

you melted into the floor with his arms around you, and for a moment, you weren’t broken people in a broken room. you were just… free.

but the fall always came.

you woke up two hours later, heart hammering, throat dry. he was slumped next to you, barely breathing. you shook him until his eyes fluttered open.

“don’t fucking do that to me.” you cried, clawing at his chest like you could keep him alive by force.

“i’m fine,” he said, blinking slo, “we’re fine.”

but you knew you weren’t. you weren’t.

—

there was a week — seven long days — where you tried to stop. cold turkey.

you’d both agreed, in the middle of a comedown that left you sobbing in the shower with your skin itching and your thoughts too loud.

“we have to stop." you’d whispered, curled up in bed, arms around your stomach like you were trying to hold yourself together.

tom didn’t answer right away. he just stared at the ceiling like he was trying to see through it.

“yeah,” he finally said, voice wrecked, “okay.”

the first day, you were angry.

the second, you were trembling.

the third, you puked three times and told him you hated him.

he yelled back, said you were just like everyone around him — manipulative, hollow, cruel.

you threw a glass at the wall. it missed.

he slammed the door and didn’t come back until 3 a.m.

when he did, he was sweating, shaking, and empty-eyed. he crawled into bed beside you and didn’t say a word. just pulled you into his arms like you were the only thing keeping him from disappearing.

day four was hell.

the headaches, the cramps, the screaming fits — you were on fire from the inside out.

“i need it,” you whispered, pacing the room, nails digging into your scalp, “i need something. anything.”

tom just stared at you, pale and hollowed out. “you think i don’t feel the same?” he snapped., “you think this is easy for me?”

you lunged at him, fists pounding against his chest. he caught your wrists, held them tight. you both froze — wild-eyed, breathless, too close to the edge.

“i hate you.” you gasped.

“i know,” he whispered, “i hate me too.”

day five, you broke, but he did first.

you found him in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, powder on the counter, tears in his eyes.

“i’m sorry,” he kept saying, “i’m sorry, baby, i can’t— i can’t do it without it.”

you didn’t say anything.

you just joined him.

—

the fights got worse.

the come-downs were savage. your body hated you. your soul hated him.

you were cold all the time. tired. shaking. empty. and the only thing that stopped the screaming in your head was the high.

he started using more. disappearing for hours. you found syringes in his jacket, in the bathroom cabinet, under the bed.

you were angry, sad, disappointed. you both had saidd days before that cocaine was oay, but you both would've stopped with the heroin.

one night, he stumbled in at 4 a.m, and you were waiting for him — sitting cross-legged on the floor, crying.

“you promised,” you choked out, “you fucking promised me we would stop with the heroin. what the fuck is this?" you cried out, holding a little bag.

he just looked at you like he didn’t even recognize your face.

“what do you want from me?” he slurred, “you think i’m your savior? i can’t even save myself.”

you stood. pushed at his chest. “you’re the reason i ever touched this shit. you dragged me into it.”

“bullshit!” he screamed, voice cracking, “you wanted it. don’t act like i forced you.”

“i wanted you,” you sobbed, “i didn’t want to be like this.”

he exploded.

grabbed the lamp off the dresser and smashed it against the wall. the crash echoed, the light went out, and you both stood in the darkness, shaking, hearts bleeding out of your mouths.

his hand caught your arm.

too tight. too fast.

not a slap. not a punch.

but enough, enough to make you cry out.

enough to leave bruises the next morning.

enough to make you flinch when he let go.

you stumbled back, cradling your arm like it wasn’t even yours.

the look on his face shifted instantly.

all the rage drained out of him, replaced by horror.

his mouth parted like he might say your name, but no sound came.

you just stared at him. silent. trembling.

your breath hitching in the silence, too scared to speak, too angry to scream.

then the anger cracked open and grief poured out.

his face crumpled. he slid down the wall and buried his face in his hands.

“fuck. fuck. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”

his voice broke.

you fell to your knees in front of him, crying so hard your ribs ached.

“i don’t want to die like this." you whispered.

he looked at you, tears running down his cheeks.

“i ruined you,” he said, “i ruin everything i touch.”

you crawled into his lap, arms wrapped tight around his shaking body. he held you like you were the only good thing left.

and maybe you were or maybe you were both just sinking at the same time.

“we were supposed to save each other.” you whispered into his neck.

“i know.” he whispered back, “i’m so sorry, baby.”

but sorry doesn’t fix track marks.

sorry doesn’t undo the nights you almost didn’t wake up.

and neither of you knew if you’d survive the next one.

—

a month later, you found him on the floor.

he was blue, eyes half open, lips parted, a needle still dangling from his arm like some cruel joke from god.

your scream cracked the walls, you shook him so hard your hands went numb.

“tom—” your voice was hoarse, raw, “wake up. please, wake up—”

he didn’t move.

you called 911 with shaking hands. you said his name over and over again like it was a prayer. the operator kept asking if he was breathing. you didn’t know. maybe. barely.

when the paramedics came, they pulled you off of him. you were screaming. crying. begging.

they hit him with narcan. once. twice. nothing, then a gasp.

then chaos.

you rode in the back of the ambulance holding his hand, even though he couldn’t hold yours back.

you whispered, “don’t leave me." over and over until your voice gave out.

—

he woke up in the hospital three days later.

white sheets. heart monitor. the sharp, cold light of survival.

you were slumped in the chair beside him, hair matted, eyes red and hollow. you hadn’t slept. hadn’t eaten. just sat there, watching his chest rise and fall, terrified it might stop again.

“hey.” he rasped, barely a breath.

your head snapped up. the moment your eyes met his, the dam broke. you covered your mouth and sobbed so hard your whole body shook.

“i thought you were dead,” you choked, “i thought i lost you.”

he turned his head away. shame bloomed across his face.

“maybe i should’ve been.” he muttered.

“don’t say that,” you snapped, voice cracking, “don’t you fucking dare.”

silence.

then: “rehab,” you whispered, “we have to go.”

he didn’t answer, but he didn’t say no.

and that was enough.

—

it was a private facility, outside the city. green lawns. sterile halls. nice nurses with soft voices.

you shared a room for the first week. you cried through detox. held each other when it got ugly. nightmares, cold sweats, vomiting — the whole hellish unraveling. he screamed in his sleep. you woke up with your hands shaking and your ribs sore from sobbing.

but for a while… you were healing.

he joked again, played guitar in the common room. you started writing. poems, mostly. messy little things about pain and hope and how love can rot.

then he got restless.

“i’m fine now,” he said one night, sitting on the edge of your bed, biting at his thumbnail, “i don’t need to be here.”

“yes, you do. i'm fine too but we need to stay until the doctors say we are fine." you said gently, reaching for his hand.

he pulled it back. “this place isn’t for people like me,” he muttered, “i’m not some rich kid with a coke problem. i’m just… me.”

“you almost died, tom.”

he looked away. “yeah. and it felt better than being sober.”

that night, he packed. they couldn’t stop him. he signed himself out and left while you were at group.

you found his note folded in your pillow.

"i love you. but i can’t do this. not like this. not here.

i’ll get clean my own way.

i’ll be okay.

don’t wait for me.

– t."

you cried like someone had ripped your soul out of your chest. but you stayed. you finished the program. you healed.

without him.

—

you woke up that morning with sunlight on your face.

it was warm — the soft kind that didn’t hurt. it spilled through the rehab center window in pale streaks, casting golden lines across the bed, the floor, your hands.

you blinked a few times and smiled.

you couldn’t remember the last time waking up felt… okay.

tom had been gone for sometime now. not a word, not a text, not even a missed call. it used to tear you up inside, but lately, it just made you determined. because you were almost there. because tomorrow… you were going home.

ninety days clean.

ninety fucking days.

you reached for the notebook on your bedside table — the one the center gave you.

you flipped to a fresh page and started to write:

day 89. i think i’m ready. it’s weird, being proud of myself. i haven’t felt that in a long time. i hope tom’s okay. i hope he’ll be proud too.

you thought about the last thing he said to you — “i’ll be okay.”

you repeated it in your head like a lullaby.

you wanted to believe him.

you pictured him waiting for you tomorrow — maybe sitting on the hood of his car, cigarette in hand, that familiar lazy grin on his face. maybe he’d say, “you actually did it, huh?”

maybe you’d cry.

maybe he would too.

you imagined hugging him and smelling the same old hoodie. you imagined him clean. you imagined a future again.

you put on makeup for the first time in months. nothing fancy — just a little mascara, a little color in your cheeks. the girl in the mirror looked tired but alive.

you told the nurses thank you.

you helped another girl braid her hair before group.

you said, “i’m nervous, but i’m excited.”

you said, “i think i’m gonna be okay.”

and you meant it.

that whole day, you carried a little joy in your chest like a candle you didn’t want to blow out.

the next day, you’d be free.

you didn’t know that across the city, a hotel door had already been kicked open.

you didn’t know he never made it past that last night.

you didn’t know his hands went cold while yours were still reaching.

you didn’t know yet.

not yet.

you got the call at 2:17 a.m.

you didn’t scream. you didn’t cry. you just sat there, frozen, staring at the wall until the sun came up.

they said it was accidental. you knew it wasn’t.

at the funeral, they played one of his demos. something he wrote when you were still together.

you couldn’t listen.

you walked out.

but later that night, you found an old voicemail from him — one you’d saved without meaning to.

“hey. it’s me. i dunno when you’ll hear this. maybe never. but uh… i just wanted to say i’m sorry. for all of it. for not being what you needed. for not making it. i love you. even if i disappear, remember that, okay? i fucking loved you.”

you curled up on your bed, the phone pressed to your chest, and cried until you couldn’t breathe.

he was gone.

but he was still everywhere.

in the smoke. in the silence. in the scars.

you’d never be whole again.

because some loves don’t end — they haunt.

—

you didn’t pick up again after the funeral.

you could’ve. god knows, the grief begged for it. the emptiness stretched wide and loud, like a scream trapped behind your ribs. you thought about it. you thought about the warmth, the quiet, the numbness.

but then you’d see his face, the way he looked in that hospital bed, the way he cried the last night you held him, the way he tried — even when he couldn’t anymore.

and you stayed clean.

every morning, you poured coffee into the chipped mug he used to love. you sat by the window and lit a candle instead of a cigarette. some days, it didn’t feel like enough. some days, it felt like too much.

but you stayed.

you went to meetings. you talked about him when your voice didn’t shake too much. you kept a photo of him in your journal — the one where he was laughing, head thrown back, sun catching in his eyes. no needles. no pain. just him.

alive.

you wrote letters to him that you never sent.

"i’m still here, tom.

i didn’t let go.

you couldn’t stay, so i’ll stay for both of us."

and on the anniversary of his death, you lit a joint but didn’t smoke it.

you set it down by the river where you first told him you loved him.

and you whispered,

“this is for you.”

then you walked away.

still shaking.

still scarred.

but still clean.

because if you couldn’t save him in life,

you’d carry his name in your healing.

and that would have to be enough.

heyy!! can u do a tom x fem!reader and tom is kinda like a stoner (or a teenage dirtbag) and him and the reader would always go to the skatepark at night to smoke weed with bill, georg and Gustav (tom and the reader are friends) and one night they decide to go to the skate park alone and smoke weed and the reader confesses her feelings to tom but he only sees her as a friend so she’s obviously sad about it and ever since they’ve been awkward around each other and bill is kinda suspicious about it so he asks the reader about it and then bill goes to tom about it and he says that he was high and didn’t mean it and THEN he confesses his feelings to her on some random day and then they date????

MIDNIGHT CONFESSIONS | TOM KAULITZ

you knew tom kaulitz loved weed before you even knew his middle name.

he was always that guy — baggy hoodie, blunt behind his ear, lighter in his pocket like it was attached to him. smelled like weed and mint, always leaned back with half-lidded eyes and that sleepy, smug smile. the type to skip class but still show up to the skatepark like it was church.

he never rushed anything. not his words. not his walks. not the way he rolled, slow and careful like it was art. you’d sit beside him on the edge of the halfpipe, watching him pinch the paper just right, tongue dragging along the edge, fingers stained a little from whatever he touched last.

“you wanna hit?” he’d ask, smoke curling from his lips like punctuation.

you always said yes.

not just for the weed — though it was good — but for the way he looked at you when you exhaled, like he liked the way you held the smoke. like it told him something about you.

he talked about weed the way other people talked about music. poetic sometimes. said it helped him think. helped him feel less like everything was spinning. said it made life softer.

and yeah, maybe he was kind of a burnout. but there was something about him — the way he floated through the world like it didn’t own him. like nothing really touched him unless he let it.

you envied that, at first.

then you just started loving it.

him.

even if he didn’t know it yet.

you didn’t really know when it started.

maybe it was the way he always saved you the first hit. even when bill was already reaching for the blunt, tom would tilt his head, lazy smirk on his lips, and say, “nah—let her go first.”

or maybe it was the way he only ever smiled with his whole face when something made you laugh. not when the guys joked, not even when he was high out of his mind. just when you laughed. like your laugh was something he’d been chasing all night.

or maybe it was the night his hoodie was soaked from the rain, and without a word, he took off his beanie and pulled it onto your head instead, like it was just second nature. he didn’t say anything about it, didn’t make it a moment. but you felt it in your chest for hours after. days, maybe.

tom kaulitz was careless with most things. joints. homework. plans. but with you? he was careful. without even knowing it.

you should’ve stopped yourself. but how do you stop a feeling that grows every time he leans against your shoulder to light the blunt, or calls you shorty with that stupid grin, or hums along to your favorite song just because it’s yours?

you were doomed from the start.

then night it all crumbled arrived earlier than you expected.

same spot on the chipped-up concrete ledge at the skatepark. same busted boombox playing something fuzzy in the background. same cloud of weed smoke curling up into the summer air. you, tom, and the rest of the guys—bill’s obnoxious laugh echoing across the bowl, georg and gustav arguing about snacks.

but that night it was just the two of you.

“the others bailed,” he’d said, his voice low and raspy from smoke and a full week of not giving a shit, “said it was too cold. bunch of losers.”

so you went anyway. even it was late, almost midnight, and even if you were freezing.

“come on,” he said, “the ramp’s all ours tonight.”

the air at the park was sharp, the kind that made your breath fog in the dark. your hoodie wasn’t enough, but you didn’t say anything. sitting beside him on the edge of the bowl, knees pulled up to your chest, you felt the heat from his thigh where it brushed against yours.

he passed you the joint, his fingers brushing yours. you didn’t look at him when you took it. didn’t trust yourself to.

“you ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?” you asked after a long inhale, eyes tilted up toward the stars.

“what, sitting on concrete and pretending it’s fun?”

you laughed. god, you loved his laugh. it was lazy and low and always made you feel like you were the funniest person alive.

“nah. i mean, just… this. us. being friends.”

he looked over at you, brows raised. “what, you getting tired of me already?”

“no,” you said quietly, “the opposite, actually.”

he blinked. “what do you mean?”

you exhaled. everything felt slow, like your thoughts were underwater. maybe it was the weed. maybe it was your heart.

“i like you, tom. like, more than just this. more than friends.”

his face didn’t change at first. just stayed frozen in that same sleepy expression. the blunt between his fingers burned low.

“shit,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “y/n… i didn’t know.”

“yeah. i figured.”

he wasn’t smiling. his eyes were distant. he rubbed the back of his neck, the way he always did when he was cornered.

“i just—i don’t think i feel the same. you’re like… my best friend.”

your heart plummeted, but you kept your face still. you nodded once, like it was fine. like your lungs weren’t caving in. “right. yeah. it’s cool. forget i said anything.”

he said your name again, softer this time. “hey, don’t—”

but you were already standing up.

you shoved your hands into your hoodie pocket, turned on your heel, and walked away. the blunt still burned in his fingers.

you didn’t look back.

not because you didn’t want to, but because if you saw his face again, you knew you’d cry.

tom didn’t text the next day.

or the one after that.

and it wasn’t like you expected him to blow up your phone, or show up at your window with a boombox like some dumb movie—but the silence still felt like a bruise you couldn’t stop touching. you told yourself he just needed space. maybe he was thinking it over. maybe he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded.

but when friday rolled around and you showed up at the skatepark with bill and the others, he barely said hi.

he didn’t sit next to you.

he didn’t look at you.

he handed the blunt to gustav instead.

it kept happening. every hangout. every time you showed up hoping for something—anything—he’d disappear a little more. ghost behind heavy eyelids and baggy hoodies, hiding behind weed smoke and half-mumbled jokes.

you noticed he’d stopped calling you by your nickname anymore, or calling your name at all.

he didn’t ask you to roll for him anymore when he was too far gone to do it himself.

he didn’t bring up old inside jokes, or tease you about your music taste, or ask if you were cold.

he was just gone.

and the worst part?

you still showed up.

still sat on the same cracked ledge at the skatepark.

still laughed when bill made some loud, chaotic joke.

still lit the blunt when no one else would.

still hoped—quietly, stupidly—that he’d look at you again.

just once.

just for a second.

he never did.

now it had been two weeks since the confession.

two weeks of weird silences and avoiding eye contact, of tom sitting a little farther away, and you laughing a little too loudly when bill cracked a joke just to fill the space.

bill noticed.

he always did.

“what’s going on with you and tom?” he asked one night when it was just the two of you, sitting outside a corner store while georg bought gum and tom wandered off to smoke behind the dumpster.

you froze. “what do you mean?”

“don’t do that,” bill said, narrowing his eyes. “you’ve been acting like strangers. you won’t even look at each other.”

you hesitated. then finally said it. “i told him i liked him. and he didn’t feel the same.”

bill’s mouth opened slightly. “you… oh. wow.”

“yeah.”

he didn’t say anything for a second. then: “you sure?”

“uh, yeah? he said it.”

bill shook his head, pulling out his phone and texting something.

“what are you doing?” you asked.

“fixing shit.”

“bill—”

“don’t worry,” he said with a smile, “i’m annoying, but i know my brother.”

you weren’t expecting him.

you were sitting on the curb outside the little corner shop, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, earbuds in, zoning out to some sad playlist you didn’t really want to admit you made just for nights like this. you didn’t even look up when you heard footsteps—assumed it was bill or georg grabbing a drink.

but then—

“hey.”

his voice cut through the music in your ears. soft. careful.

you looked up, and there he was.

tom.

his hoodie was too big, hair tied back messily, one earbud in like always. but his face—his face looked different. unsure, like he’d been pacing in his head for hours before finally walking over.

you pulled one earbud out. “hey.”

he shoved his hands in his pockets. rocked back on his heels. “can i sit?”

you nodded.

he dropped down next to you on the curb, but not too close. just enough. the silence hung for a second before he finally spoke again.

“so, uh… bill kinda ripped into me.”

you snorted softly. “yeah. sounds like him.”

“said i was being a dick,” tom added, “he’s right.”

you stayed quiet.

“i didn’t mean to ignore you,” he went on, “i just… didn’t know what to say. i freaked out.”

you looked down at your shoes, heart already tightening again. “you made it pretty clear that night.”

he sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “i was high. like, way too high. and i panicked. said something i didn’t even understand myself.”

“so what, you didn’t mean it?”

“no,” he said, “i didn’t. especially with the way i said it.”

you blinked, looking over at him. his eyes were already on you.

“truth is, i didn’t want to mess anything up,” he said, “thought if i let it happen—if i admitted how i feel—then everything would change.”

“it did change.” you said quietly.

he nodded. “i know. and i hated it.”

you swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “how do you feel, tom?”

he looked at you then, really looked at you, like he was trying to put it into words for the first time.

“i feel like an idiot.” he said. “because i’ve liked you for so long and didn’t realize it until you walked away.”

your breath caught.

“and now,” he continued, “i keep thinking about how you looked that night. how sad you were. and how i let you walk away thinking you weren’t enough.”

you didn’t speak. didn’t need to.

he leaned a little closer, voice gentler now. “but you are. you’re more than enough. and if you still want me, i swear—i’m here. fully. no more running. no more being a coward about it.”

your chest ached, but it was a different kind of ache now. soft around the edges. warmer.

“you’re really late.” you murmured, a shaky smile tugging at your lips.

“i know,” he said, smiling too, “but i’m here now.” you glanced at him once, then again—his eyes were on the pavement, lashes low, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was still holding his breath.

and maybe you were too. but something in you softened. because this was tom. yours, maybe now. not perfect. not polished. but real.

so you leaned. gently. slowly.

rested your head on his shoulder.

at first, he froze—just for a second. then you felt him exhale, like the air finally left his lungs after weeks of holding it in.

his arm moved around you. not rushed. not unsure. just right. he tugged you closer, hoodie and all, pulling you into the kind of hug that didn’t need explaining. the kind that said i missed this. i missed you. i don’t want to let go again.

his chin rested lightly on the top of your head.

you closed your eyes.

and for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, your heart didn’t feel heavy.

tt just felt full.

he didn’t change overnight.

he still showed up late to everything.

still wore hoodies two sizes too big and smoked like it was a food group.

still teased you for your music taste even though you caught him humming your favorite song more than once.

he was still tom.

but now…

now he held your hand in the backseat even when no one was watching.

now he kissed your temple when he passed you the blunt.

now he kissed you slow in parking lots and tugged you back when you tried to leave first.

now he texted you first. not just with “yo” or a meme—sometimes it was just “come outside.” and he’d be there, in his usual beat-up sneakers, arms open, like he was made to hold you.

he never really said the mushy stuff directly. not with big speeches or dramatic words.

instead, it came in the way he’d roll your name off his tongue like it was his favorite song.

the way he lit the end of your joint first, always.

the way he’d pull you into his hoodie after a long night at the park and say, “you’re freezing, baby. don’t argue.”

when you laughed, his face would soften. not just a smile—like something in him settled, like hearing your laugh fixed parts of him that had always been a little bent out of place.

and you also always knew tom was flirty. always knew he had that cocky, lazy grin, the hands that lingered too long, the voice that dipped low when he teased. you weren’t naïve — you’d heard the stories. seen the looks. felt the tension whenever he leaned in a little too close, even before you were his.

but knowing and experiencing it were two different things.

because when it finally happened — when things slipped from teasing to real, from touches to something deeper — it hit like a wave.

it started slow. like always. some night in his room, dim lights, music low, legs tangled on his bed. you’d been laughing at something stupid he said, tucked under his hoodie, his fingers tracing lazy circles along your bare thigh.

and then his voice dropped.

“you always laugh like that when you want something?”

you looked up, heartbeat skipping. “what?”

“nothing,” he said, grin pulling lazy at the corner of his mouth, “just noticed you always laugh like that right before you want me to kiss you.”

you barely had time to react before his mouth was on yours — warm, hungry, sure. all the hesitation that ever lived between you dissolved in the heat of it. his hand slid up your back, under your shirt, pulling you closer, pressing you into him like he needed you there.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this.” he breathed against your skin.

you felt it in every part of you — in the way his mouth trailed down your neck, in the way his hands knew exactly how to hold you, rough and slow all at once. he wasn’t rushed. just intentional. focused. intense.

“you gonna be good for me?” he murmured into your ear, voice low and almost teasing, but his eyes were sharp. “let me take care of you?”

you nodded, breath caught in your throat. he smirked, like he already knew the answer.

“that’s what i thought.”

and when it happened — when you finally gave into it — he didn’t stop talking.

whispers against your skin.

“you’re mine now, huh?”

“you look so pretty like this.”

“say my name, baby. just like that.”

his hands held you steady, his mouth traced every inch of skin like it was owed to him — not in a way that took, but in a way that worshipped. like he’d been thinking about this for months. like he wanted to memorize the way you felt.

and even when he got rougher, needier, there was still something in the way he looked at you — like you were his favorite secret. like you were the thing he’d never let anyone else have.

afterward, when the sweat cooled and the room fell quiet, he didn’t let you pull away. he just wrapped his arms around your waist, hoodie still half on, and buried his face into your shoulder.

“you okay?” he asked, voice rough.

you nodded, breathless. “yeah.”

he just gave you those lazy smirk of his, taking in pride in making you feel good.

and sometimes…

you saw it in the way his jaw clenched when someone else looked at you for too long. he never said anything. never made a scene.

but you noticed.

how his arm would suddenly slip around your waist.

how his thumb would press slow circles into your side like he needed to remind you—and himself—that you were his.

how he’d look at the guy, then back at you, eyes low, mouth tight.

you asked him once, teasing, “are you jealous?”

he just blinked at you. said, “nah.” too quickly.

but his fingers tightened just slightly on your hip.

he was. you both knew it but he’d never admit it out loud.

still, when you climbed into his lap later that night, hoodie sleeves bunched up your arms, his hands on the backs of your thighs—he said your name like it meant something.

and it did.

because you were his now.

and tom kaulitz didn’t do halfway.