"Strings Between Us

numbered

The night had cooled, but the air backstage was still thick - humid with sweat, amps, and leftover adrenaline.

Isadora wrapped her guitar cord slowly, carefully, like focusing on the task would settle her heartbeat. The post-show buzz hadn't worn off yet. Not the music. Not the crowd.
And definitely not the part where she'd run headfirst into Tom Kaulitz.

She hadn't told Nina or Memphis and Calvin. They'd seen her face when she came back from the hallway and raised eyebrows, but she just said "nothing."

Now the others were loading up gear, arguing over whether to stop for food on the drive back to Leipzig.

"Isadora, help me with the merch box?" Nina called from across the room.

"Coming," she said, hoisting her case and heading toward the van.

She was halfway there when someone stepped directly into her path - again.

She didn't need to look up to know who it was.

Tom.

Same hoodie, same swagger, same smirk. But something about his eyes was different now - more serious. Or maybe just less performing.

"You're leaving already?" he asked.

She raised a brow. "Wasn't aware we were supposed to stay for autographs."

He smiled. "You didn't stay long enough to say goodbye."

"You usually get goodbyes?"

"I usually get numbers."

That made her pause. Her fingers tightened on the handle of her guitar case.

"Is that your line?" she asked. "Works on the girls who scream your name outside?"

He tilted his head, grin softening. "I don't use lines on girls who can outplay me."

She blinked.

Okay, that one was unexpected.

A beat of silence stretched between them. The van's engine sputtered to life behind her, and she knew she had seconds to either walk away or change everything.

Her fingers dug into her jacket pocket. She pulled out a tiny square of paper - the back of an old setlist - and scrawled her name and number.

No hearts. No smiley faces. Just numbers.

She handed it to him without a word.

He took it like it was heavy.

Then - just as she was turning to leave - he said softly, "You really going to make me wait until you're back in town?"

She stopped. Didn't turn. Just called over her shoulder:
"Maybe. You like waiting, rockstar?"

And then she was gone, boots echoing on the pavement.

Tom stared at the paper in his hand.

Isadora Almeida.

He folded it once, slow. Slipped it into his hoodie pocket like something precious.

He didn't know when he'd see her again.

But he knew one thing for sure.

He would.