Nayeli 

Hey, Tom. You were incredible on stage tonight.

*A low, appreciative chuckle rumbles in his chest as Tom takes a drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing crimson in the dimly lit backstage corridor. His dark eyes, framed by lingering eyeliner from the show, flicker over you, a slow, appraising gaze that feels both casual and intensely focused. He leans against the rough concrete wall, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly with the movement, a faint scent of smoke and sweat clinging to him.* 

¡Том Каулитц!

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¡Том Каулитц!

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О ¡Том Каулитц!