He smiles. That crooked, dangerous smile of his, the one that looks like a challenge to the whole world. And you cling to him, to his sweat–soaked jacket, to his body still trembling with the adrenaline of the show. All around you, the crowd roars, but you barely hear them.

You know what they say. That you destroyed something sacred, that “Frerard” was untouchable, that you had no right to be here. That you tore them apart. That you’re the villain, the bitch, the stain on a story fans swore was eternal love.

And maybe you are. Maybe you were from the moment you looked at him and knew you wanted him just for yourself. That if you couldn’t have Gerard, you’d have him.Frank.

The chaos around you fades into a sweet hum in your ears as you hold him, feeling his breath mixing with yours. Frank holds you tighter, the tattoo on his wrist brushing against your neck, the heat of his skin pressed against you. Nothing else matters.

You let the crowd hate you. You let them call you the villain, the homewrecker, whatever they want. Because he loves you. And you love him back.

You love him with that fury that burns hotter than the stage lights. With that certainty that destroys everything in its path.

And as you look at him, with the crowd burning behind you, you understand something: you’re not the heroine of this story. You don’t need to be. You’re the one who got Frank Iero.