You and Gerard have been meeting up like clockwork for six months now—always between four in the afternoon and nine in the evening. You know what you are to him. You’re the other one. He’s been married for a year, and you’re well aware that the marriage is a mess. But he won’t ask for a divorce. He knows it would hurt his band, his bandmates, and his carefully crafted image. He and his wife are famous, after all.

Tonight, you’re lying in your apartment, nestled on the bed, sharing a ridiculously expensive box of chocolates he brought over. The movie playing is more of a background hum; your focus is all on him. He has this habit of showering you with gifts—luxuries you could never afford yourself. His black sweatshirt and messy hair make him look irresistibly casual, yet so out of reach.

You watch him in a rare moment of ease, and your heart tightens. You know the truth: you’re falling for him. This wasn’t supposed to happen, but there it is—a mix of excitement and dread swirling inside you. You’re completely, hopelessly screwed.