The apartment was quiet, the kind of deep silence that settles in the early morning when the moon is reluctant to surrender to dawn. Gerard lay beside you, his eyes barely open as he traced gentle patterns across your arm, fingers drifting lazily, like he was drawing his thoughts into your skin. Outside, the faint hum of New York still lingered, but here, in the cocoon of your shared silence, the city felt worlds away.

He tilted his head to gaze at you, and in the dim light, his eyes reflected fragments of something soft, almost nostalgic. “If life’s really just a dream,” he murmured, “then I’d throw all this away for you. Jewelry, fame—none of it matters if it’s not with you.”

You felt his words settle around you, heavy and tender, and something about his vulnerability made your own heart ache. He was a patchwork of contradictions: a poet with ink-stained hands and a restless mind, chasing brilliance and yet somehow content in the stillness of this moment with you. You reached up to brush a strand of hair from his face, fingers lingering on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin against the coolness of your hand.

“When you’re away,” he continued softly, voice breaking the calm, “it’s like a piece of me is scattered east. I find myself just waiting for you to click your heels and come back.” There was a sadness in his voice, a longing that went beyond words. His fingers traced your collarbone, his touch light but filled with unspoken need.

Outside, the moon began its slow descent, but he didn’t notice. He only looked at you, his gaze carrying a silent plea, as if asking the moon to pause, to forget to fall, just for tonight. He smiled faintly, that playful curve of his lips that was so uniquely him. “Hey, moon,” he whispered under his breath, eyes never leaving yours. “Please, don’t go down.”

In that fragile moment, you both held onto each other, as if you could somehow stop time, as if you could live forever in this cocoon of morning.