Only an hour remained in your shift, and judging by the sheer lack of customers from the last eight hours of the day, you knew it would be smooth sailing from here on out.

You didn't even mind that you had boxes upon boxes of coffee beans and general supplies to unpack and arrange in the small shop from the shipment you had received, especially not when you were able to listen to whatever music you pleased while performing such a laborious task. Not that Weezer’s Blue Album made it that much more bearable. (Kidding, of course.)

Ever since your encounter with your next-door neighbor, your stress level during every shift this week seemed to ease up from the week prior.

The birds chirped joyfully on your commute, your boss treated you to your favorite sandwich each morning as you two worked, and the shop was particularly quiet and relaxed, which allowed you to actually take time to converse with customers, writing small notes on to-go cups and engaging in meaningful conversations with your regulars. It was what made you love your job to begin with.

You loved seeing your regulars, the dad and daughter who would come in weekly to purchase an iced black tea and whatever vibrantly decorated cookie was in the display; the woman who read the daily paper right by the fireplace; a young gentleman who thumbed through a different graphic novel each visit, who loved Akira and recommended it to you on your first meeting, and who, surprisingly, only ordered a simple hot brewed coffee with no added creamer or sugar. It was this mundanity that you missed. You loved routine, and you loved this small, meaningful life you had built by yourself and for yourself, even if some people found it to be restricting and menial.

'excited to see u soon’

You scoffed slightly at the text from Eden before locking your phone and slipping it away into your back pocket. Of course, Eden had been begging you to go out, and even though your spirits were, in fact, higher than usual, you still dreaded the act of going out and having to be near other intoxicated people trying to escape their day-to-day lives. Even so, you loved Eden and your other friends (and, admittedly, you were a desperate people pleaser), and you would never flake without a good reason to.

You allowed yourself to dissociate, letting your body run on autopilot while the shop echoed the upbeat, beachy undertones of Weezer, knowing that in just a few hours, you would probably be wishing you had never stepped foot outside your house today.

Lately, you hadn't heard any music resonating through the walls from your neighbor's apartment. An overbearing part of you almost wanted to check in on your neighbor, but you decided immediately, once thinking about it, that it would probably send the wrong message, the message that you were tracing and tracking his movements, and the last thing you needed was a man thinking you were obsessed with him.

On your short walk home, your mind gravitated toward your neighbor. What was his story? Did he also work a mundane day job like you? Nah, you couldn’t picture it. You honestly couldn’t really picture him as any other entity in your mind other than your neighbor.

When you arrived at your door, you allowed all thoughts of your neighbor to leave your mind. That is, until you heard the familiar riff of “Only in Dreams” from Weezer’s Blue Album, the very one you were playing in the shop earlier.

Maybe he was obsessed with you.

You shook that nonsensical thought out of your head. Obviously, it was just your tastes that were incredibly aligned, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he knew you were just singing out all the words to this album with Rivers through the speakers of the coffee shop as you mopped jovially.

You knew you hadn’t had time to linger on such a menial observation, especially not after Eden had sent a text that she was on her way to you. You had better things to worry about with the night ahead, like how to avoid the inevitable social crash.

“Two rounds of lemon drops for my girls,” Alysa announced, setting the tray of eight shot glasses down at the table you four were lucky to secure in the crowded bar.

“Are you trying to get us fucked up this early into the night?” Eden tsks playfully as she begins distributing the glasses amongst you.

“I would want to get shitfaced as soon as possible too if I went on as uneventful a blind date as you did, Alysa,” Gianna giggled teasingly.

Alysa playfully flips Gianna off as Gianna reaches for her glass. “We finally all have a break from work and school, and that’s the attitude you have. Also, that’s surprising coming from you, Eden. You’re the one that’s usually rallying us to party.”

Eden smirks, catching her tongue between her teeth as she rolls her eyes in mock annoyance at your other two friends before taking a shot glass in each hand, signaling for you to do the same. “Maybe my frontal lobe is finally developing in my mid-20s.”

You watch as the other girls playfully scoff to themselves at Eden’s remark. “Besides,” Eden starts, easing two glasses in your direction, “I think there’s someone else we should be bothering to get sloshed tonight.”

You scoff lightly before taking the lemon drops. “Do we forget that I’m severely emetophobic and that I will never get to the point of being sloshed?”

The three girls burst into a fit of laughter. “Obviously not,” Eden says with a chuckle. “We just want you to have a good time and not regret leaving your apartment to see us.”

She smiles genuinely at you, her eyes grateful as she hovers her arm over the center of the table.

“For this round, I’m toasting to you,” Alysa announces, standing so abruptly it spooks you when you two lock eyes.

Gianna nods her head solemnly as she says your name before raising her glass. “Thanks for always making the exception to leave your home to spend time with us.”

“A toast to my very best friend since elementary,” Eden says coolly to compensate for the slight waterworks forming in her eyes at the intimate statement.

“You guys are too good at flattery,” you tease with a smile. “I won’t toast to myself, but I will make a promise to push myself out of my comfort zone more often so as not to miss out on moments like this.”

You and the other girls chorus a “cheers” as you clink glasses and shoot back one shot after the other.

“All sappy speeches aside… didn’t we come out to relax after the weeks we’ve had? Plus, I know you love witnessing the chaos of bar fights and mosh pits,” Eden says to you after restacking her shot glasses onto the serving tray.

You can’t help but smile, the strong taste of the alcohol already relaxing all the tense muscles in your body. “You know me too well, E. Anything that I can observe from afar that doesn’t concern me makes for great entertainment.”

“Seems like you’ll be getting your wish then, you masochist,” Gianna teases. “I heard from a coworker that the band tonight is supposed to be up and coming in the hardcore-ish punk scene. Supposedly, they don’t even look like they’d be in a hardcore band.”

Gianna’s eyes light up when she diverts her attention to the stage, raising a finger to point at the very spot you four had drunkenly watched other local bands perform countless times. “Look, that’s them setting up! They’re called My Chemical Romance?”

You focus your attention on the small, barely elevated stage in the bar where, because of the sheer volume of people, you can only make out slight details of the guys onstage. Through the crowd, you see the drummer fumbling with his equipment, a glasses-wearing bassist holding the neck at a slightly higher position than you’re used to seeing, a curly-haired guitarist hooking up his guitar to the amps, and two rather familiar guys you can’t quite place from your angle.

You shift your head, attempting to catch a glimpse of the guitarist’s face, yet give up when the only thing you catch is his guitar, adorned with holographic stickers that spell out the word “pansy,” which makes you scoff. You find you have better luck trying to see the singer, and your jaw nearly drops when you recognize him.

Gerard. One of the regulars at the coffee shop, the very guy who isn’t too keen on hipster flavored lattes and prefers a simple hot brew of whatever roast you recommend. Simple-order Gerard, who is apparently the lead singer of a hardcore-adjacent band.

You are shocked, to say the very least, but Eden’s coworker was right. None of these guys really strike you as the stereotypical rock band member, which is why it surprises you even more when the first riffs of their opening song fill your ears. It’s captivating. Eden feels the same. Even Alysa, who isn’t particularly into rock bands, is bobbing her head along to the rhythm.

If you thought you were impressed by your regular, who you realize you had not gotten to know enough, you are floored when he finally starts to sing. He is fun to watch, jarring. He commands the room well.

You furrow your brows a bit at the backing screams, trying to pinpoint the source of those shrill sounds. You look to the guitarist and the bassist from earlier, and even the drummer. You crane your neck around the people blocking your view, and you freeze in place after finding a clear line of sight.

Your neighbor. Frank. Screaming into the mic like he’s unleashing the anger of his entire bloodline, thrashing about onstage like he has all the space in the world, and mouthing the words to the audience like they’re a legendary act and not at a first-time gig.

You have a hard time connecting the dots between this Frank and your Frank, yet despite it, it makes sense.

He exudes an energy that sets him apart from anyone else you’ve ever known. He doesn’t just play the part of a rock star, he is one. With each song that passes, he plays as though it’s the most emotional, heavy, and complex masterpiece. He makes the crowd believe with him. Everyone knows that whatever it is, he’s got it.

You don’t realize they’ve finished the last song of their set until you’re broken out of your trance by your friends' voices and Alysa returning with a tray of cocktails.

“Damn, I’ll have to tell my coworker that they were right. We should catch them at their next performance,” Gia admits, pulling her phone out to send the text.

“Honestly,” Eden begins, sipping on her water, “I’m thoroughly impressed. It’s not every bar night that we get to hear actually coherent bands.”

“And they’re lookers too. A certain someone over here kept making goo-goo eyes at the guitarist.” Alysa winks at you, sliding a cocktail your way.

“No,” you shake your head a bit too hard. “I just recognize him. And the singer.”

Gianna and even Eden raise a brow at this as Alysa’s smirk sinks into an “o.”

“You know them?” Gianna exclaims. “How could you possibly know them?”

You let out a small giggle at their faces. “The singer, that’s Gerard. He gets coffee at work every morning. I never knew he had a talent for singing.”

“And Frank—”

“Hey, neighbor.” A voice calls from behind you.

When you turn your head, you’re met with hazel irises hidden behind a sweaty black fringe.

“Hi, neighbor.” You say in a voice that’s too cheery and definitely too comfortable as a result of the number of drinks you’ve had tonight.

“Neighbor?” Alysa squeals from the table.

“Yes, sorry. This is my next-door neighbor, Frank,” you introduce. “Frank, these are my friends Alysa, Eden, and Gianna.”

“It’s nice to meet you guys.” Frank smiles, giving a small wave. “Did you guys like the set?”

“A friend told me to keep an eye out for you guys tonight. Her recommendation did not disappoint,” Gianna gushes.

“Fuck yeah, man. Glad to hear it.” Frank reaches a fist out to Gianna, which she gladly returns, as Eden and Alysa both give their own short praises.

“And what did you think, Ms. Homebody?” he says in a sultry tone, one that is surely the result of his exhaustion and not to be taken in any other context.

“Definitely glad I broke my nighttime routine to see that,” you admit with a blush.

The corners of Frank’s eyes crinkle as he lets out a high-pitched laugh, one that’s infectious, that people can’t help but join in with. “Well, I’m counting on you being at every other show then.”

“I would love to,” you stutter out. “I’m sure the girls would love to also.”

“This is kind of my first time playing together with the group, and I was planning on hosting everyone for a smaller kickback at my place tonight. Did you ladies maybe want to join?” Frank asks casually, something that, if you had asked, you would be stumbling over your words and convincing yourself that maybe you could just spend another night alone, yet Frank does it effortlessly.

“Well—”

Before you can get anything out, Eden, who has been incredibly silent this entire night, answers on your behalf.

“We are so down.”

You give her a look and feel a sinking feeling in your chest when you see the scheming smile on her face. This night is looking to be a lot longer than you were preparing yourself for.

Your alarm had failed to wake you at the proper time (or you had snoozed it unknowingly in your slumber), which led you to skip out on makeup altogether. Your daily commute to work had been interrupted by unanticipated construction, and even the customers at the coffee shop were more overbearing and unpleasant than usual.

All you had craved all day was to laze around on your couch, get baked, and mentally prepare yourself for the next day—what would hopefully be a better one.

Upon entering your apartment, you began your post-work routine, ready to forget about the day you had. You changed out of your work clothes, washed off your makeup, put together a small meal comprised of the stray ingredients in your kitchen, picked a record to play, and consumed yet another square from the batch of pot brownies your best friend Eden had dropped off for you at the beginning of the week—a pretty frequent occurrence.

“I know you love to hole up, but I can’t have that. We’re young and sexy and in our 20s,” she snarked. Yet despite her pleas, she offered to cease her begging on the condition that you become the prime test subject for her pot desserts—not that you minded, either.

Although you enjoyed going out and partying with your friends, you knew deep down that you were a homebody at heart, and this was your ideal night—an impending high and good music. You basked in the sounds of Nirvana trailing through your living room, your body feeling numb and your mind finally free.

You didn’t realize just how many times the song had looped before you noticed the first few low strums hit your ears once more. You rose from your cozy spot on your sofa.

Had something happened to your record player again to cause the track to repeat? You loved this album closer, really, but you had no desire to trap yourself in this cycle of self-pity—one that, apparently, your record player wanted to keep you in.

As you stepped toward your record player, you froze, your eyebrows creasing upon realizing it was untouched and unplugged. You had never turned it on.

You shut your eyes tight, allowing your body to follow the source of the sound that continued to play until you reached the wall your sofa was resting against. You moved your ear against it, the music slightly increasing in clarity and volume.

You hummed to yourself, attempting to remember if you knew who resided in the unit beside yours. The previous tenants—a jovial couple in their late twenties whom you had become close with—had recently moved out. This was your new neighbor, whom, because of your schedule, you hadn’t had the chance to introduce yourself to or even see in passing.

As annoying as it was, you didn’t want your first introduction to your neighbor to be (1) because of a noise complaint and (2) while you were high. Or so you thought.

After eight repeats of Something in the Way, you decided you’d had enough. You were all for moping to gut-wrenching songs and mass-looping albums, but if you wanted to salvage your high, you needed to put yourself first.

Maybe you should have put a little more thought into how you’d be perceived by your new neighbor before traversing to the front door of the adjacent apartment, but it was a bit too late for that as you delivered three strong knocks to their door in your worn Radiohead raglan shirt and unflattering plaid pajama pants.

You swallowed your sudden nerves as you heard the song cut abruptly, and before you could lose an ounce of confidence, the door swung open.

You were expecting a sad excuse of a middle-aged life crisis to grace your sight, but instead, it was a doe-eyed, spiky-haired guy who looked to be about your age.

“Hi,” you blurted out.

“Um, hello,” he replied, staring awkwardly at you. “Can I help you?”

You blinked a bit to sober yourself up before clearing your throat.

“Uh, your music is a bit loud,” you started abruptly, and upon realizing how rude you sounded, you added, “As much as I love Nevermind, I can only listen to it so many times.”

Your gaze trained over his face, searching for a reaction. All the man did was let out a huff of laughter, a side smile gracing his lips.

You felt stupid, getting ready to brace yourself for the cocky, offensive earful your next-door neighbor was about to deliver.

“You like Nirvana too, hm?” he asked, leaning against his doorframe.

You processed his words; any nerves you felt before were slowly fizzling away.

“Among others,” you stated. “I feel like most of my music lies within the alternative rock genre, but I’ll listen to anything with a solid sound.”

The moment stalled for a second, and you curtly introduced yourself to fill the silence, drawing your hand forward.

“Frank. Frank Iero,” he replied, returning the handshake.

“I’m sorry for bothering you. I honestly didn’t really think it through. I’m a little stoned right now,” you stuttered out in a fit of embarrassment. “As long as you lower the music, I won’t complain about your terribly tragic decision to loop sad songs.”

Frank barked out a loud laugh at that. “I’m sorry for killing your high with my loud, tragic, moping tendencies.”

“It’s not like that, and I mean, if I’m being honest,” you began, stifling a chuckle, “I feel like you’d be bound to knock on my door to tell me to shut up one of these days. When my friends come over to pregame a show, I know we tend to get a little loud. You won’t ever complain about my choice in music, though.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Frank paused. “I hope I’m forgiven. I’m not trying to beef with a new friend.”

“Well, thank you, neighbor.” You flushed slightly at the sentiment before stepping back to face your door, just a mere yard away. “It was surprisingly nice to meet you.”

The only noise heard in response was Frank’s laughter as you opened your door to your unit. You shut the door softly, stopping to process the encounter you had just had. An eager grin fell onto your lips at the prospect of finally having a likable neighbor and friend.

Maybe your night hadn’t been ruined after all.

"good morning, sweet thing." he smiles sweetly at you, eyes filled with adoration.

you sit up in bed, his worn beige flannel drooping lazily off your shoulder as you slowly blink awake. he lets out a small chuckle before reaching over to your bedside table to grab the hot vanilla latte he made for you. your hands meet his, carefully transferring it from his grasp to yours before taking in the sight of slightly wobbly heart-shaped art.

"good morning, honey." you mumble sleepily before taking a sip. the taste rolls on your tongue and you let out a delighted hum at the drink. "you're getting really good with the latte art, gee."

"you flatter me." he says in a playful tone. "but maybe i should just stick to comic book art."

"it's a good thing you're a man of many talents," you say and sigh contentedly, the caffeine finally working its magic. gerard kneels beside your bed, his upper body finding purchase in your lap as you continue to take sips of your drink. you lower one of your hands into his brown, salt-and-peppery hair noticing the contrast between his hair and the shine of the ring he gave you all those years ago, stroking lightly through his thinned locks.

"how do you feel about picking up some new stationary today?" he proposes. "you could pick up a new journal or anything else you need? stickers? washi tape? maybe a new fountain pen."

"plus," he pauses, chewing on his lip slightly as his eyes droop, almost as if he would rather skip what he was about to say altogether. "i need more letter sets for when i have to go on tour again."

his words claw at your chest despite knowing that this was the sacrifice that came with this job that he loved.

to prevent the mood from dimming, you nod softly. "that sounds perfect, gee."

when you two finally make it to your favorite stationary store, one you two had been shopping from before you both were married, you tag along with gerard as he goes through the letter sets, you two gaze at the assortment of pens together, and by the end of your browsing, both of you had accumulated a basket of goods (some yours, most gerard's), all of which gerard paid for (despite your protests).

"gerard, i can pay for my own things."

"don't care." he bites back with a smirk, reaching for all your bags because even after your long shopping day, he wanted to prove that chivalry wasn't dead. "i'm going to keep spoiling you until i can't anymore."

because of the recent resurgence of gerard's popularity and relevance in the public eye, you both decide to get take-out at your favorite restaurant - however, if you were speaking honestly, you knew yourself and your husband both preferred eating in the comfort of your own home anyway.

after your eventful time in town and after arriving home with your take-out, you both end up where you usually do - in your very cozy living room of which the walls were littered with framed photos of you and gerard over the past years - specifically on your sectional (which had been arranged into a bed formation the day gerard returned from tour).

you're situated on your back, nestled in your softest blankets with gerard's head, arm, and leg outstretched over you - like he's scared that if he doesn't physically hold you, he'll be in pain. the sounds of scott pilgrim echoing quietly throughout the room, your post-meal fullness, and gerard, your human weighted blanket, all lull you into a state of pure bliss.

you feel gerard trace his fingers on your skin underneath the blankets, each caress featherlight. you know that soon he will have to leave your home for several months and that the scene of you in this exact spot will not be as warm or tender, so you bask in the moment.

you enjoy gerard's touchiness, his craving to literally cling onto you every second. you lean down to press a soft kiss into his hair and wrap your arm around him a little tighter as he leaned even closer into you. gerard loved being the little spoon.

"i'm going to miss you." you admit softly into his thinned, salt and peppered locks.

time had been immensely kind to gerard, the only real difference between now and then being that his hair had greyed, the creases on his face deepened, and his voice had gotten slightly higher pitched, but despite it all - he was still your gerard.

you don't fail to catch the slight quiver in gerard's lip as his eyes meet yours. "come with me."

"gerard-"

"please." he begs gently, his stare holding yours. "come with me on tour. you could be with me the whole time, at all the stops."

truth be told, you never imagined that you would get to go on tour with gerard. mcr had broken up before you and gerard became serious. even during the reunion, you hadn't gone with them due to the sudden global pandemic. this was your chance.

"we have been wanting to travel more." you state with a growing grin.

gerard shoots up from his position, leaning over you. "really?"

you nod with a laugh as he wraps his arms around you in excitement. he peppers kiss after kiss all over your face, hugging you tighter.

"baby, it's going to be so great. you could help me rehearse for all the new lore additions we'll be adding- god- it's going to be a lot of fun. i get to finally show off my beautiful partner."