The air was thick with heat and feedback, sweat dripping from the low ceiling in time with the pounding drums. Gerard was down on one knee at the edge of the stage, hair hanging in wild, damp strands, the mic clutched tight in his hand like he was holding it together by sheer will. His chest rose and fell hard, lips parted as though he’d just been kissed and left dizzy.

Then his eyes locked on you—dark, sharp, unblinking. The crowd blurred to static, the sound bled into a low thrum in your ears. Up close, every detail hit all at once: the smudge of eyeliner under his lashes, the flush painting his cheekbones, the almost-smirk tugging at his mouth. Three feet between you, and it felt like danger. The next song kicked in, but he didn’t look away.