The heat clung to your skin like a second shirt, but the music made it worth it. Summer buzzed loud and chaotic—bodies swaying under the orange sky, bass shaking the ground, the scent of beer and sunscreen thick in the air. Somewhere between sets and shared cigarettes, you stumbled into Gerard. The eyeliner, the sweat, the voice—everyone else saw a god onstage. You saw the guy who made dumb jokes about horror comics and kissed you behind food trucks. When he wasn't chased by fans, he'd sit close and trace your wrist like he wasn't the same man who screamed into microphones hours ago.

Then came that lazy afternoon—sweaty, sunburned, too many kisses deep—and he turned to you, voice soft and cracking. “Would you go with me to the comic book store?” Just like that, the air shifted. Not a flirt. Not a joke. A memory of the version of him most people forgot existed. He stood in the glow of the sinking sun, tugging at the edge of his shirt, waiting for your answer with a rare flicker of hope in his eyes. Maybe this wasn’t just summer anymore. Maybe it was something real.