"Strings Between Us

"Just Us, Always"

Later That Night – Berlin, Germany – Penthouse

The front door clicked softly as Tom stepped inside, kicking off his sneakers and slipping out of his jacket with a sigh. He was tired — not from the work, but from the weight of the world always hanging just over their heads.

The living room was dimly lit, warm, and calm. A faint citrus-scented candle flickered on the coffee table. The only sound was the low hum of the heater and a soft acoustic playlist looping in the background.

Isadora was curled up on the couch, her hand resting over her belly, wearing one of his hoodies that practically swallowed her whole.

She looked up as he entered. “Hey,” she said, her voice low and soft.

Tom dropped everything — his stress, his guarded posture, his quiet distractions — and walked straight to her. “Hey, mama.”

He kissed her forehead and sat beside her, pulling her legs gently over his lap, his hands instinctively settling over the bump.

“You okay?” he asked.

Isadora smiled and nodded. “Yeah. My mom was here earlier.”

“Yeah? How’d it go?”

“She brought old baby photos,” Isadora chuckled. “Said I looked like a meatball with cheeks.”

Tom grinned. “Can confirm. That still checks out.”

Isadora smacked his arm, laughing. “Shut up.”

“She said she’s proud of me,” Isadora murmured after a beat, growing serious again. “Not just because of what I’m doing… but because I’ve learned how to love. To fight.”

Tom blinked slowly, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. “She’s right.”

“Do you ever think about it?” she whispered. “How weird all of this is? Us? These babies? Fame, rumors, tattoos… But somehow, it feels like this was always supposed to happen.”

Tom brushed a thumb along her cheek. “All the time. I think about how everything that happened before you — the band, the mess, the tours — led me to the moment we bumped into each other.”

He paused.

“And every time I think about what I almost missed… I thank the universe I didn’t.”

Isadora shifted slightly so she could press her cheek against his chest. “They’re boys,” she whispered. “Two little boys.”

Tom closed his eyes, holding her tighter. “I want to be good for them, you know? Like… better than what the world expects from us.”

“You already are,” she said. “You’re already better.”

Silence fell again — the kind of silence that wraps around two people like a blanket.

Tom reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a tiny object. “I got you something,” he murmured.

Isadora blinked. “What?”

He opened his palm — a tiny guitar pick with two engraved stars and their initials carved into the center:
T + I – 2006
On the back, it read:
Für unsere zwei Sterne.
(For our two stars.)

Isadora’s breath hitched.

“I just wanted you to know…” Tom said softly, “no matter what happens — tour, press, rumors — I’ll always come home to you.”

They kissed. Slowly. Deeply. Not rushed or wild, just full of everything they didn’t say out loud.

And then, as the candles burned low and the snow returned outside the windows, they fell asleep on the couch together, wrapped in warmth and love.