𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ November 2003. Saturday. ⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒   

You woke up thinking about him.   

The gross, chewed-up Bic pen he'd held out like a peace offering. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips as you steadied his wrist. The way your number had looked inked on his arm, nestled between the bold lines of his rising sun tattoo, as if it had always belonged there.   

And that smile. God, that smile.   

It wasn’t the shit-eating grin he wore when he was about to say something designed to piss you off. This was different. It crinkled the corners of his eyes until they nearly disappeared, turning his whole face into something unguarded and unnervingly sweet. You'd replayed the memory so many times that it had burned itself onto the back of your eyelids. Every time you blinked, there he was.   

"Don't make me regret this, Iero."  

"No promises."  

You rolled onto your side, eyeing the cordless phone on your nightstand. The rational part of your brain protested—why had you just given your number, typically reserved for advisors and family, to someone as unpredictable as Frank?   

You couldn’t be so reckless. You had a five-year plan to keep up, after all.   

A master’s degree with honors. A publication in a peer-reviewed journal. A PhD from an institution whose name carried real weight.   

And then, when the time was right, a relationship. A connection made with someone stable, impressive, and predictable in all the right ways.  

The plan was good. The plan was safe.   

The plan had absolutely no space for a boy like Frank Iero.   

And yet —   

Underneath all the careful structure that was your life, something in you buzzed with curiosity. You only knew him as your lunchtime debate opponent, your coworker, the thorn in your side since July. But what was he like outside of Peaceful Mel's? Who was Frank when he wasn't trying to get a rise out of you?   

Was his apartment as messy as his car? What did he do outside work and band practice? Did he have a favorite book, or did he only read liner notes and issues of Weird New Jersey?    

Your finger traced a mindless pattern on the blanket.   

If he called...what would he sound like over the phone? Would the Jersey in his voice be thicker through the line, rough with sleep? And your name—how would he say it? The same way he did at work, mocking and edged with challenge? Or different? Softer. Deliberate. As if it were the title of his favorite song.  

A giggle escaped before you could stop it, a high-pitched sound that seemed to come from someone else. You pressed a hand over your mouth, but it was too late. Another followed, then another, until you were laughing into your palm like an idiot.   

You felt thirteen again. Hiding under your covers after Jamie Miller had "accidentally" brushed your hand in the lunch line, absolutely certain you'd be married by the end of seventh grade.   

"Unbelievable." You muttered, burying your face in the pillow to stifle the sound.   

You had a life to build. You didn’t have time for this.  

You forced yourself upright and into routine. The bed got made. The coffee got started. By the time you sat at the kitchen table with your laptop, Frank was already a memory. Mostly.   

You took a grounding sip and opened Word, rereading the last paragraph of your unfinished essay:  

Double_Consciousness_11-10-03.doc   

"Du Bois' theory of double consciousness describes the Black American's split awareness: seeing oneself as one truly is, while simultaneously seeing oneself through the lens of a white society. Two warring selves housed in one body, never fully reconciled.”   

Your fingers hovered over the keys, poised to expand your thoughts. But your mind, the traitor that it was, refused to follow. Instead, it yanked you back to last night and the moment you'd walked through the front door.    

The way conversations faltered mid-sentence. The guy pausing mid-sip of a beer, his eyes tracking your every movement. A girl whispering behind a cupped hand, her friend’s gaze flicking toward you from across the room. The question was unspoken, but the thickness in the air made it loud and clear: What is she doing here?   

And then Danny.  

“Tell your boyfriend Danny said what’s up!”  

Boyfriend.  

The word made you grimace. Danny’s logic was as simple as a child's: Frank invited a Black girl, and Frank likes Wu-Tang, so obviously they’re together. Case closed. Mystery solved. Gold star for Danny.  

You took another slow sip, attempting to wash the memory down with bitter coffee. But it stuck, festering in your brain until it pried open a question you'd spent years learning to avoid when it came to boys of a lighter complexion.    

Could Frank ever look at you and feel attraction?   

Not novelty. Not curiosity. The real, dumb, chemical thing. The kind that twisted your stomach and left your palms damp. The kind that made you lie in bed on a Saturday morning replaying the curvature of someone’s smile.   

You reread the paragraph for the fifth time.  

Seeing oneself as one truly is, while simultaneously viewing oneself through the eyes of a society that refuses full recognition.   

What did Frank see when he looked at you?   

When his gaze had landed on you in that crowded basement, standing in a sea of girls who looked like they'd been cut from the same cloth as his favorite records. Pale girls with dyed hair, studded belts, and a natural belonging in the spaces he called home. Girls who never once, not for a single second of their lives, had to wonder if their presence was a subject of discussion.   

Did he see you as the outsider you always felt like? The overdressed, over-analytical buzzkill who stuck out like a sore thumb?   

Or did he, in that fleeting, electric moment of eye contact, see something else entirely? Something he simply…wanted?   

The cursor blinked. Steady. Patient.   

Setting down your coffee, you press the heels of your palms into your eyes, rubbing until colours bloom behind your lids. Get a grip. This isn’t you. You’re fantasizing about a boy you couldn’t stand a week ago, now wondering whether he’d ever find you attractive. 

It was pathetic. Absurd. This was—   

BRRRIINNNGGG   

The phone's shrill cry cut straight through your spiral.   

One ring. Two.   

You froze. Your mother never called on Saturdays. Your friends pestered you on Yahoo Messenger. That left two possibilities: a telemarketer with terrible timing, or—   

Three rings.   

—him.   

The rational part of you urged you to let it ring. Pretend you weren’t home. Reclaim some dignity and let voicemail handle it. But the other part, the part still soft and stupid from this morning, was already in motion.  

By the fifth ring, just before voicemail could click on, you snatched the receiver.  

"…Hello?"   

Static. A beat of fuzzy silence.  

Then: “Hey.”  

One word. That was all it took.   

You sank onto the edge of your mattress, your legs deciding it was time to go weak. It was exactly the voice you imagined. Sleepy, low, still not fully recovered from last night's screaming.   

"So." Fabric rustled on his end, the lazy shift of someone still horizontal. "You done processin'?"   

"Processing what?" You knew exactly what.   

"The show." He made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world. "You said you needed time. It's been—" more rustling, a muffled yawn, "—like, fourteen hours. That enough, or are you gonna blue-ball me forever?"   

Your nose wrinkled. "Charming."   

"I try. Come on. Hit me. What'd you think?"   

You pulled your knees to your chest, curling your free arm around them. The answer was easy. The second his band launched into their first song, you had your verdict ready: tasteless, immature, angry white noise for angry white boys.    

But with his sleep-rough voice pressed to your ear, the criticism crumbled.   

"Like I said, it was loud."   

“You told me that already. Try again.”   

Something fluttered low in your stomach. You absolutely despised that a part of you, a deeply shameful part, perked up at being bossed around by him.    

"Fine.” You closed your eyes, summoning the critic. “Structurally, there's nothing to work with. No stable melody. The lyrics were completely unintelligible — something about a cheerleader and a switchblade? I stopped trying to decode it after I heard the word 'hard-on.'"   

Frank snorted, the sound crackling through the line. "Song's called Our Lady of Sorrows, for your information."   

"Mother Mary weeps."   

"Nah. Got her tatted. We're cool."   

A pause. "Is that really all you got from it?"   

You traced an invisible pattern against your knee. The critical vocabulary was there, polished and ready—the same words you’d used to dismiss Chain of Strength.   

But when you closed your eyes, the memory that surfaced refused to be dismissed.   

The drummer’s joyous face, a grin so wide it almost looked painful. The bassist and guitarist moving in silent sync. The singer diving into the pit without fear, trusting complete strangers to catch him.   

And Frank.  

Frank dropping to his knees, guitar still wailing. His whole body was in it—head thrown back, thrashing around, screaming lyrics about death and love until his voice went raw. It wasn’t one of the calculated performances you were used to seeing; this was just a person wringing themselves out completely, offering their heart and soul on a silver platter.   

And when he looked up at the audience from his knees, that was the part that stayed with you.  

He didn’t look at them like they were strangers packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a sweltering basement. He looked at them like they were the only source of oxygen he had in that room. Like they were something he needed to survive.  

Your stomach churned. Admitting you were wrong was a muscle you’d never bothered to train.   

“I can see why you love it.”   

The words came out stiff, unfamiliar in your mouth.   

“You looked—” You searched for the word, unsure how everyday people managed to do this. “Passionate. All of you did. Like nothing else existed except that room. That moment.”   

Tightening your grip on the phone, you managed to push through the initial discomfort. “And the crowd—the way they moved together, knew every word. The energy between you and them… it felt like watching people speak a language I don’t know.”   

Taking a breath, you gave yourself time before admitting the hardest part. “I don’t understand it. I probably never will. But I can see why it matters—to you. To them.”   

The line went still, nothing but faint static and the breathing of a man on the other side of Belleville, lying in a dim bedroom holding the honesty you’d just handed him.  

"…huh."   

No bite. No punchline. Just that — a considering sound, not quite sure what to do with the weight of your words.   

"I didn't expect you to say that."   

"Don't," you cut in, too fast, reflexively building the wall back up. "It was a simple observation."   

That pulled a small laugh out of him. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that? I figured you’d show up last night just to prove a point. But you actually listened. Tried to get it.” Another quiet chuckle. "That's… shit. That's cool of you. For real."  

Cool.   

First cute, now cool.   

The adjective was too soft for something built on mutual antagonism and morning CD debates. You needed to reestablish the rules. Put this back into familiar territory.   

"You owe me five dollars, by the way."   

A pause so long you could practically see his expression.   

"…The fuck are you talking about?"   

“Five. Dollars.” You enunciated each word slowly, like explaining basic math to a dense child. “I was charged an entry fee at the door. You extended an invitation. At no point did you disclose there would be a cost.”   

"It's a house show!" His voice jumped an octave in pure disbelief. "Everyone pays at the door — it covers pizza, gas money, a new string if something snaps mid-set—"   

“I don’t care what it covers.” You interrupted, examining your nails with bored detachment. “I’m not ‘everyone.’ I was a guest. Your guest. You failed to communicate the terms of entry. Therefore, I require reimbursement.”  

"'I require reimbursement,' he parroted, his voice pinched into a high, mocking, bratty whine. "Are you actually hearin' yourself right now? You're bustin' my balls over a fuckin' Lincoln when you roll into work every single day with a bag that probably costs more than my rent?"   

Heat raced up the back of your neck. He wasn’t wrong—five dollars was nothing. You were being petty, too petty. But your ego had taken too many hits in the last twenty-four hours, and you were not about to take another.   

“My bag is irrelevant.”   

"It's five bucks!"   

"It's my five bucks."   

A muffled thump came through the receiver, the sound of him collapsing into what could only be a pile of pillows, followed by a long groan. It was the sound of a man who’d just lost an argument he never stood a chance of winning. “Jesus Christ. Fine. I’ll give you your money back. Happy?”   

A smile touched your lips. There it was. Order restored. The world was settling back into its proper alignment.   

"Excellent. I expect it on Friday."   

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, the words muffled by fabric. Silence followed—long enough for you to stand, stretch, and decide the conversation had run its course.   

Then it shifted.   

"Actually. Scratch that."   

"Excuse me?"   

"Let me take you out instead."   

The victory no longer tasted sweet. "...Out."   

"Yeah. Food. Me, you, a table. You're a smart girl. Connect the dots."   

You pulled the receiver away from your ear and stared at it, as if the beige plastic might explain what was happening to your Saturday morning. “Frank. We work together.” You said it slowly, hoping the statement would shake some sense back into him.  

"Yeah." Completely unbothered. "I know."   

"We argue. Constantly."   

"Mhm."   

"You called me a snob on Monday."   

"You called me a college dropout," he countered smoothly, "We both said shit. You free tonight or not?   

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. You tried again. A dry, baffled sound escaped instead. He was so infuriatingly casual about it, like asking out your enemy was completely normal behavior. Your feet were moving before you realized, pacing a tight line across your bedroom floor, cordless clutched in a death grip. “This isn’t funny.”   

The soft click of a lighter came through the line, followed by a drawn-out inhale. "Not laughing." His voice was slightly muffled by the cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. "You sat through a full set without clutching your pearls and got juked out of five bucks in the same night. Least I can do is buy you dinner. We'll call it even."   

Dinner.   

Not the safety of morning coffee. Not the simplicity of a quick drink between two coworkers killing time. But dinner. A table with silverware, prolonged eye contact, and a conversation that had to last through an appetizer and an entrée.   

"Frank—"   

"There's this place in Denville," he went on, like you hadn't spoken. "Pasta Shop. Best Italian spot in Jersey, hands down."   

An incredulous laugh slipped out. "That's in Morris County!"   

"So?"   

"So it's an hour away."   

“Little under, if I take 80,” he said, as if it were nothing, as if you were worth the extra miles. “I’ll drive.”   

You bit the inside of your cheek. You’d already gone to his show. Already handed him your number. Already admitted, for once in your life, that you were wrong. There was no logic in continuing down this path, no reasonable justification for entertaining whatever this was becoming.     

You paced another tight circle, drifting out of your bedroom and into the kitchen. Your gaze landed on your open laptop, the screen still glowing with Du Bois's words. Two warring selves housed in one body.   

The question from earlier resurfaced, sharper now, impossible to ignore: What did Frank see when he looked at you?   

He was offering you the answer—over pasta, an hour away.   

Your eyes squeezed shut, already regretting what you were about to do. “What time?”   

You heard the smile in his voice before he spoke. "Seven."   

“And this is just—” You grasped for something, anything that would create distance. “This is strictly reimbursement. For the five dollars.”   

"Sure." He was definitely grinning now. "Whatever you need to tell yourself. See you tonight."   

Click.   

The dial tone hummed on. You stood in the center of your kitchen, the cordless phone heavy in your hand. Your stomach twisted tight with nerves as your mind raced ahead, mapping out every possible way the night could blow up in your face.  

Nine hours.    

Nine hours until the answer stopped being theoretical. 

.ೃ࿔*:･  

By six-thirty, your bedroom was a warzone.    

Silk camisoles draped over the desk chair. Three pairs of jeans puddled on the rug. Your bed had disappeared entirely beneath a mountain of rejected possibilities.    

It shouldn't be this hard.    

You knew how to dress. Presentation was a skill you'd mastered years ago; you had a formula for everything. Class. Coffee dates. Family dinners. Casual nights out. Every occasion had its uniform.    

But what was the uniform for a reimbursement that felt suspiciously like a date?    

"Too try-hard," you declared, sending a slip dress to the rejection pile with a flick of your wrist.    

"Too republican." A J.Crew sweater set followed immediately after.    

You held up a midi skirt, considered it for half a second, then tossed it toward the armchair. “Am I meeting his mother?”    

You stood in the center of the wreckage in your bra and underwear, hands planted on your hips, glaring at the closet like it failed you. Which, at this point, it had.    

This was Frank.    

Frank — who owned what, five shirts? Frank, whose jeans looked like they'd survived a shredder. The man wouldn’t know Prada from Payless if his life depended on it. Your appearance, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t matter.   

Or at least, that's what you'd been telling yourself repeatedly for the past two hours.    

You told yourself while blending eyeshadow into a smoky gradient, an open issue of Allure propped against the bathroom mirror offering a twelve-step plan to "Sultry Eyes He Can't Resist!"   

You told yourself while laying your edges down with a tiny brush, shaping them into soft curves that framed your face just so.    

And now, standing half-naked in the wreckage of your wardrobe, you were still trying to believe the lie.    

With growing annoyance, you shoved the remaining hangers aside — and there, forgotten in the very back, was your solution. A tailored white button-up. Classic, clean, a perfect middle ground. You paired it with your best dark-wash jeans, the ones that fit perfectly, and slipped into your slingbacks. Smoothing down the fabric, you turned to the mirror for the grand reveal.   

Polished. Put-together. Completely, undeniably you.    

And somehow, completely wrong.    

You tilted your head, studying your reflection. The shirt was perfect. The problem was the execution—the buttons. 

They were fastened all the way to your throat, giving you a stiff, constricted look.   

Reaching up, you worked the first button free.    

The fabric parted with a soft pop, exposing the line of your throat and the sharpness of your collarbones. You assessed. Better. Less severe.    

Your hand lingered, fingers tracing the stitching of the second button. One more wouldn’t hurt; risky was trendy now—look at Paris Hilton. It’s just fabric.    

Pop.    

The fabric fell open, revealing a deeper V of smooth skin and the subtle curve of cleavage. You turned slightly, watching how the lamplight caught the exposed skin, painting it with warm shadows and honey golden tones.   

Would he notice?    

The image manifested: Frank on your doorstep, his usual smart-ass grin wiped clean by the sight. His eyes would lock onto the undone buttons, lingering longer than they should. You’d see his throat work, a hard swallow as he tried and failed to summon a joke. All that would come out would be a small, punched-out breath. A silent “oh.” 

A slow, victorious smile touched your lips. You practiced in the glass: a slight tilt of the head, a demure glance through your eyelashes.  "Hi, Frank."    

Adjusting your posture, you tilted forward to let the open collar do its work. "This old thing?" You brushed off with faux nonchalance. "Calvin, I think. I've had it forever—"    

You flipped your hair, your gaze dropping to the exposed skin in the glass, tracing where his eyes would land. And just like that, the fantasy shattered. Suddenly, all you could see was how obvious it was. How desperate. A neon sign flashing in bold letters: PLEASE FIND ME PRETTY.   

“God,” you hissed at your reflection. “You’re so stupid.” 

As if two undone buttons could close the distance between your world and his. As if a flash of skin could make Frank forget the girls who belonged there effortlessly. 

Disgusted with yourself, you refastened the buttons. One. Two. Back to the top. Back to safety.    

You looked…fine. You looked like you were going to a business dinner. Which, technically, this was. You were here for reimbursement, not compliments.    

You gave your reflection one last look over before the doorbell rang.    

Your head snapped toward the clock on your nightstand.   

Seven o'clock. He was punctual. The bastard was punctual.   

"Pasta and reimbursement." You said to the woman in the mirror, reaching for your purse on the dresser. "You're going to eat, collect what you're owed, and come home. That's the whole evening."    

You repeated it under your breath as your heels clicked down the hall.    

At the door, you pressed your eye to the peephole. There he was, leaning against the railing with the same bored slouch he wore at Mel’s, dressed in his classic uniform: busted jeans, shoes that had seen better days. But something was missing. Instead of the usual band tee, he wore a sweater. There wasn’t a logo or ironic graphic in sight, just thick black wool that looked surprisingly soft. His hair was still a mess, but a different kind of mess—like he’d run a hand through it with actual intention, dark strands curling softly against his cheek and the nape of his neck.   

He’d made an effort.   

It’s just Frank, you reminded yourself. Same old, annoying Frank. You can do this. 

But as your fingers closed around the knob, a voice cut through the pep talk.    

"You’re a control freak with an ego that’s scared to let go.”   

The taunting voice from Monday’s argument slipped back in. The memory was so vivid it made you want to scream. Why was this coming back to haunt you now? Hadn’t you proven you weren’t scared? You’d gone to his show. You’d admitted you were wrong. Wasn’t that enough to satisfy your own obsessive mind? 

Your jaw tightened.    

Scared.    

In one fluid, reckless motion, your fingers went to your collar. With two quick pops, the cotton fell open, revealing the V of skin you had just frowned upon in the mirror. You adjusted your bra until everything sat exactly where it should. Shoulders back, chin lifted, neck a long line.   

Let’s see who’s scared now.    

Pulling the door open, Frank looked up. An amused glint was present in his eyes, his mouth opening to deliver what was undoubtedly a smartass greeting.      

But his gaze dropped.    

For a fraction of a second, his eyes traced the newly revealed path. Down the column of your throat, over the delicate shape of your collarbones, to the soft swell of cleavage framed by white cotton and a hint of black lace from your bra. The clever remark died on his lips. He blinked once, slowly, like a man whose software needed a hard reset. Clearing his throat, he dragged his gaze back to yours. 

"Took you long enough.” He finally managed, pulling his hand from behind his back. “Freezing my ass off out here.”    

In his palm sat a single chrysanthemum. Deep burnt orange, fully bloomed, stem clearly torn in a hurry.    

You eyed it. "Did you...rip that out of someone's garden?"    

“My neighbor’s got like forty of them.” He extended it toward you, shrugging. “They’ll survive.”    

"You stole a flower."    

"And the world is still spinning." He nudged it closer. "Partial reimbursement. Dinner covers the rest."    

You looked from the flower to his face and back again. You did the math: the stem was too short for any vase you owned, too fragile to survive a night in your purse. Realistically, it would die by the end of the night. Conclusion: It was completely impractical.    

Cautiously, you took it, turning it between your fingers.    

What do you do with a stolen flower?    

Stumped and out of options, you reached up and carefully tucked it behind your ear. The petals brushed your temple, the burnt orange warm against your skin.      

When you glanced back at him, Frank was staring.    

Not at your face, not at the undone buttons, but at the flower in your hair. His expression had gone still, unreadable. “Yeah,” he breathed into the cold air. “That works.”    

Blood rushed to your cheeks. You had to move. If you stood there in this charged silence for one more second, you would either spontaneously combust or say something incredibly stupid.    

Without a word, you stepped past him, pulling your door shut with a firm click. You didn't look back as you started down the concrete stairs, the flower bouncing gently with each step.    

"Clock's ticking, Iero," you called over your shoulder, forcing your voice into something dry and impatient.   “I want my reimbursement without traffic.”    

Behind you, you heard it—that soft, hiccupping laugh of his, followed by the quick scuff of his shoes as he hurried to catch up.    

You didn’t look back. You kept walking toward his beat-up Civic, cool night air brushing the patch of skin he’d lingered on, the stolen flower grazing your temple.   

Pasta and reimbursement, you thought, your hand closing around the handle of the passenger door.   

Just keep telling yourself that.  

.ೃ࿔*:･ 

The Pasta Shop announced itself before Frank even pointed it out — a narrow storefront tucked into Denville's downtown strip, its red neon sign buzzing faintly in the dark.  

“Used to be a laundromat,” Frank mentioned, easing the car into a tight spot. “Owner used to come here as a kid. When they were gonna scrap the place, he bought it.” He said it like he was letting you in on a secret, a piece of New Jersey lore little known of.  

You looked at the humble building through the windshield. A laundromat.  

“Best Italian in Jersey,” he declared, flashing a just-you-wait grin. “Don’t start judging yet.”  

Far, far too late for that.  

The smell hit you the moment you stepped out of the car — the sweet simmer of San Marzano tomatoes, earthy herbs, and something fried you couldn't quite identify. Inside, the place pulsed with life. Forks scraping plates, glasses clinking, a dozen conversations stacking over one another. The dining room was small, too small for this many people, but no one seemed to mind.  

A woman behind the register looked up when the bell above the door chimed. The moment she saw Frank, her face transformed, wrinkles rearranging into pure delight.  

“Frankie!”  

She rounded the counter in a heartbeat and pulled Frank into a hug that looked like it could crack ribs. He didn’t stiffen or pat her back awkwardly. He melted into it, his arms wrapping around her stout frame, his face briefly buried in her shoulder. A boy being welcomed home.

"Hey, Mrs. Sartori. Sorry, it's been a minute. Band's been keeping me busy."  

"Always with the band!" She swatted his arm affectionately before her gaze landed on you, traveling slowly. Over the tailored lines of your shirt, the carefully applied makeup, lingering on the burnt-orange chrysanthemum tucked behind your ear. It wasn't unkind, but it was thorough. "And who is this?"  

Your spine straightened automatically. You offered your hand, presenting your most professional smile. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Sartori. Frank and I work together."  

She ignored your hand entirely. Instead, she captured both of your hands in hers. She turned your hands over, her grip warm and strong as she further inspected you. “So pretty,” she hummed, bringing your wrist to the light. “Look at this skin. Like something from a painting.” She released you with an approving squeeze and returned to her register. “Your usual, Frankie? Penne arrabbiata, no cheese?”  

Frank nodded, already digging out the worn leather wallet from his back pocket.  

"No cheese, no meat—" She shook her head with theatrical dismay. "God bless him. Allergic to everything." Her attention snapped back to you. "You eat meatballs?"  

"I—yes, but—"  

"Good. We're known for the meatballs. Best in Jersey. I'll make you something special." She pointed a commanding finger at Frank. "The garlic bread comes, you feed her immediately. She's too thin."  

"She's not gonna let me—"  

"Bread, Frankie."  

"Yes, ma'am."  

He paid, pocketed the receipt, and led you to a table in the back, near a boisterous family and an older couple quietly sharing a cannoli. You slid into the booth as he dropped into the seat across from you, stretching his legs out until his knee bumped yours under the table.

"You come here a lot," you observed, smoothing a napkin across your lap.  

"They're good people.” A simple answer, taking a sip of water from a thick mason jar. "Let me eat my body weight in pasta, treat my family well."  

Before you could respond, a server appeared with a plate of garlic bread. It wasn’t the sad pre-packaged garlic bread used in chain restaurants, but thick slabs of crusty ciabatta gleaming with olive oil, studded with roasted garlic and flecks of fresh parsley. The scent was intoxicating.  

Frank didn't wait. He tore a piece in half with a satisfying crack and pushed the plate toward you. "Doctor's orders."  

The first bite was irritatingly good, your eyes closing before you could stop them. When you opened them, Frank was watching you, his chin propped on his hand, wearing the smug, satisfied expression of a person who has been waiting to be proven right. "Good, right?"  

You swallowed, rearranging your expression into something neutral. "It's fine."  

"Bullshit.” He grinned, tearing off another piece for himself. “You practically had an orgasm.”

You took another bite solely to avoid giving him the satisfaction of a reply.  

The food arrived quickly. A generous bowl of spaghetti and oversized meatballs for you, penne arrabbiata for him, steam rising between you.  

And as if the two of you had been transported back to Mel’s breakroom, you slipped into your familiar dance.

He mocked the way you twirled your pasta and the surgical precision of how you cut meatballs. “You eat like we’re at Ninety Acres.”  

You pointed out the way he shoveled penne into his mouth with the urgency of a man running out of time. “You eat like you’re on death row.”  

"Mind your business."  

"Your business becomes my business when it's happening eighteen inches from my face."  

The bickering was the most comfortable you’ve been all night. With the rhythm of insult and retort, you could almost forget the flower in your hair, the way his knee still pressed against yours, and the terrifying fact that you were sharing a meal.  

Then the background music shifted.

The instrumental faded, and something new bled from the speakers mounted in the corner. A raw, soulful voice filled the room, heavy with longing, carried by the sound of a piano and the steady beat of the drums.  

"These arms of mine...they are lonely..."  

Frank's fork paused halfway to his mouth. His head cocked slightly, listening. "Oh, shit," he murmured, mostly to himself. "Haven't heard this in forever."  

You looked up, a meatball speared on your fork. “What?”  

"Otis Redding. 'These Arms of Mine.'" The tone of his voice didn't match the man who described his arrabbiata as "fuckin' bangin'" ten minutes ago.  

You set your fork down carefully. “You know Otis Redding.”  

“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, as if you’d just asked whether water was wet. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Caught off guard, the filter between your brain and your mouth was delayed. "What could you possibly know about Otis Redding?"

He shrugged, chasing a piece of penne around his bowl. "I dunno. A normal amount? My grandfather had all his records. Otis, Sam Cooke, Etta, Aretha. All the Stax/Volt stuff. Played 'em constantly." He took a bite, speaking with a casualness that further boggled your mind. "He was a drummer. Played Dixieland, Big Band, all the old standards. Toured with The Marvelettes for a hot minute in the sixties. My dad played too." A brief pause, a look of fondness present in his eyes. "Got to see him play with B.B. King when I was twelve. Blew my fuckin' mind. Every Frank in my family is a musician, like a disease."  

You stared at him, your brain struggling to piece together the new data—grandfather, The Marvelettes, B.B. King—onto the existing file: Frank Iero. College dropout. Lowbrow taste. Loudest motherfucker you’ve ever met. It didn’t make sense.  

“You’re lying.”  

“I’m not.”  

A disbelieving huff. "You've never mentioned any of this. Not once."  

"Why would I?" He shot back, flatly. “You decided I was dumb the day we met. Why would I waste my time tryin’ to prove something to someone who’s already made up their mind?”

Dumb.

The word hung in the garlic-scented air.  

"Frank, I never said you were dumb—"  

He gave you a look. Tired, almost disappointed.  

“You don’t have to say it.” There was no heat in his voice. "It's in the way you talk to me. The way you explain shit like I'm five. 'Sade Adu is a musical genius, Frank. Every note is intentional.'" He mimicked your cadence with painful accuracy. "Like I couldn't possibly understand the concept of intention without you breaking it down for me."  

“I don’t—” You stopped, cringing at the defensiveness in your voice. Taking a breath, you tried again. “I don’t do that.”  

“You do.” He gestured loosely with the fork. "You do this thing where you constantly have to be the smartest person in the room. And not just smart—right. And you need everyone to know it." He paused, staring right through you. "You ever get tired? Always needing to control everything? Always needing to win?"  

The question felt like an uppercut.    

The world around you faded. The laughter at the next table, the clatter of dishes, Otis Redding's aching voice, all of it dissolved until there was only you and the weight of his question.  

You wanted to be furious. You were furious. You wanted to lash out, call out every one of his flaws, list every single way he'd gotten under your skin since July, and how much you resented him for it.  

But you couldn't.  

Because he was right.  

You dropped your attention to your hands folded neatly in your lap. The same hands that had spent months correcting him, dismissing him, treating his existence as an inconvenience. You did it to everyone. It was your default setting, a language you’d learned young and perfected to protect yourself.  

How could you explain it? How could you make him see that in a place like Belleville, you had to be twice as sharp, twice as right for recognition? That the arrogance you possessed wasn't just vanity, but survival. Without the loud performance of brilliance, you were invisible.  

“I don’t need to win,” you blurted out, the frustration you’d been directing at him folding inward. You could feel the weight of his stare on the crown of your bowed head. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t impatient. It was just a steady, patient presence, waiting for you to navigate the muddy waters of your own pride.

"Precision matters to me." The words still refused to come out the way you wanted them to. You sounded like you were addressing a seminar room instead of someone sitting eighteen inches away. "I require a certain degree of control over my environment. For...specific reasons."    

Your thumb pressed into the center of your opposite palm, tracing wide circles. It was an old, self-soothing habit born in the bathroom stalls of your predominantly white elementary school. A seven-year-old girl hiding from her peers, realizing for the first time just how different she was. The habit used to bring you comfort, grounding you in uncomfortable situations. But the tactic was useless in front of him, unable to prevent the sting in your eyes.  

"And sometimes that need—" You inhaled, the garlic and basil that had smelled like comfort twenty minutes ago now felt suffocating. "It can make me..."  

Condescending. Arrogant. A terrified little girl pretending so hard that she’s better than the world and that nothing could ever touch her.

You let out a long, shaky exhale, all the fight draining out of you. There was no elegant way to phrase it, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t outrun it forever.

“Look.” The word was a strained whisper. You forced your chin up, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry. For talking down to you. For dismissing you. For treating you like a problem. It was...it was shitty of me. You didn't deserve it."    

Frank didn't respond immediately. He studied you—the tension in your jaw, the slight tremble of your lower lip you couldn't fully control, the way the overhead light caught the shine of unshed tears threatening to spill.

“I’m not exactly innocent here either.”  

He set his fork carefully on the edge of his plate and leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. "I get a genuine, fucked-up little thrill out of riling you up. Like—I see you walk into Mel's and my first thought is usually: ‘alright, what button can I push today to make her do that thing with her eyebrows.’" A faint, self-aware smirk tugged at his mouth. "That's probably not healthy."  

A choked sound escaped you, a release of tension. "Probably not."  

"So, I'm sorry too." He said plainly. "For baiting you just to watch you react. For getting under your skin on purpose." He paused, dropping his eyes towards the table. "For wanting to be around you and being too much of a dick to figure out how to do it right."  

For wanting to be around you.

The childish simplicity of it caught you off guard. It was the oldest cliché in the book: the boy pulling the girl's pigtails because he lacked the vocabulary for anything else. Except you weren't children on a playground. You were two flawed, combative adults sitting across from each other in a tiny Italian restaurant, finally saying what you should've said months ago.    

Frank leaned forward on his elbows, a familiar spark of mischief returning in his eyes. “So. Let's be healthy. Blank slate."  

You blinked. “What?”

"I'm serious." He extended his right hand over the half-finished meals. "Hi. I'm Frank. I work at a record store, I play guitar in my favorite band, I have weird food allergies, and I steal flowers from my neighbor.”  

You stared at his calloused hand, a faded tattoo peeking from under the cuff of his sweater. Instincts flared, signaling you to retreat, armor up, and stay locked in your lonely bubble where it was safe to exist.

But the sheer absurdity of his gesture and the boyish hope in his eyes that you’d just play along made you second-guess those alarms.  

Slowly, you reached out and took his hand.  

"Hi, Frank." Your voice came out quieter than intended, almost shy — it was a voice you hadn't used since you were thirteen and absolutely certain you'd be married by the end of seventh grade.  "I also work at a record store. I have a five-year plan. And I'm currently wearing a stolen flower."  

His thumb moved over your knuckles, slow and steady, like he was convincing a startled deer not to bolt. "No way, you also work at a record store? Small world.” He further played along, his tone light and teasing. "This five-year plan... it got any space in it?"  

Pull your hand back. The voice in your head was insistent. Pull back. Protect yourself.

The plan existed for a reason—to keep you focused, protected, and far away from reality.

Frank was walking chaos. He was everything you'd spent years building walls against.

But he was also everything you'd been secretly envious of since the day he walked into Mel's. That ease. That freedom. The way he moved through the world like he didn't need anyone's permission to exist.

For a terrifying moment, you let yourself imagine it. What would it be like if you stopped running and just lived?

"It's a very structured document." You paused, gathering courage. "But it's... open to possible revision."

.ೃ࿔*:･ 

The ride back to Belleville was quiet.  

Not the loaded silence from before — this was different. The kind that didn't need filling. Just the low hum of asphalt under worn tires, the whoosh of the heater, and the melodic rhythm of whatever CD he'd slipped in at a red light. Jets to Brazil, maybe? Or was it Sunny Day Real Estate? You couldn't remember what he said. You were too busy replaying the phantom warmth of his hand in yours.  

Frank guided the Civic to a gentle stop outside your building, the engine settling with its familiar worrying rattle. You unbuckled your seatbelt, the click sounding too loud in the stillness.  

"Thank you," you said, turning toward him. The orange glow of the streetlight caught his profile in the dark—the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the shine of his lip ring. "For the reimbursement."  

“Anytime.” He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking as he angled toward you. “Even if you spent half the meal critiquing how I eat.” 

"Observations," you corrected automatically, old reflexes firing without their usual bite. "And my observations concluded that you eat like a man on death row."  

“Sure, observations.” He snorted softly, shaking his head. But you could see it, even in the dark, that he was pleased. Pleased that the banter was still there, even after everything. That the foundation of you hadn't been entirely washed away by vulnerability.  

The CD clicked to its end, the final notes of the guitar dissolving into silence. All that remained was the faint tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine and the shared breath of two people who had crossed a line.  

This was your cue. Get out. Say goodnight. Walk to your apartment and file this evening away to be dissected tomorrow over coffee.  

But your body refused to move.  

And Frank didn't seem to mind.  

"So," he finally spoke, "Blank slate."  

"Blank slate," you echoed.   

His tongue fiddled with the silver ring in his lip, a tic that signaled that the gears in his head were turning. His gaze dropped to the steering wheel, thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles on the synthetic rubber. The same motion he'd used on your knuckles.  

"I've got this box," he began, the words chosen with unusual care. "At my place. My grandfather's stuff. Old datebooks from when he toured, some photos, a few of his records." He still wasn't looking at you, his focus locked on that circling thumb. "If you ever want to see it sometime, you should come over. No pressure, just thought...I dunno. You might find it interesting. Or whatever."  

The invitation hung between you. A piece of his history was offered and then immediately shrugged off, as he was bracing for you to say no.  

"I'd like that."  

His head snapped up, eyes wide with genuine surprise. "Really?"  

"Yeah." You nodded, fingers tightening around the strap of your purse. "I'd like that a lot."  

And there it was — that smile. The real one. The unguarded one that crinkled the corners of his eyes until they nearly disappeared. The one that had been living rent-free in your head since last night.  

"Cool." A breathy laugh escaped him, a sound of pure relief. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll call you. Tomorrow. Or, shit, Wednesday. Whenever’s good for you.”  

The sight of that smile, the sound of that laugh—it made the car feel impossibly small. Your pulse kicked in your throat. Suddenly, breathing felt like a struggle. You fumbled for the door handle, missing twice before your fingers found the damn thing. "Right. Well. Drive safe." You pushed the door open, a gust of wind rushing in. "Thank you. Again."  

Stepping out onto the curb, the November cold was a relief, a much-needed reset for your frazzled nervous system. Closing the door, you began to walk.

Four steps. You made it four steps until something hit you.  

Something hot, reckless, and utterly dumb. The same scorching heat that had made you undo those shirt buttons on your doorstep, the same wild impulse that had pushed you onto a bus to a stranger’s basement.  

With what was a half-walk, half-run, you rushed back to the Civic before he could pull away. You bent down and rapped your knuckles against the driver's side window—tap-tap-tap.  

Frank turned, a flicker of confusion crossing his features as he rolled the window down with a creaky whirr. "Did you forget someth—"  

You didn't let him finish.  

Leaning through the open window, you bridged the gap in one graceless, impulse-driven motion. Your lips pressed against the rough grain of his cheek, an inch away from his mouth. The contact was brief but firm, leaving behind a sharp seal of lipstick—a vivid claim staked against his skin.  

Two seconds. Maybe three.  

Then you were gone.  

You pulled back without looking at him, fleeing the scene as if you'd just committed a crime. Your slingbacks clicked frantically against the pavement as you made a beeline for your building. With trembling hands, you jammed your keys into the lock, twisted, and stumbled inside, pulling the door shut behind you with a force that echoed through the empty entryway.  

Oh God.  

What did you just do?  

You pressed your back against the door, your heart a frantic bird trapped in your ribs.  

Outside, there was no sound or movement. No engine revving, no door slamming. Just a beat-up car sitting under the streetlight outside your complex.  

One second. Five. Ten.  

Then, after what felt like an eternity, you finally heard it. The soft crunch of gravel under tires, the groan of heavy machinery as he slowly pulled away.  

Only then did your legs give out.  

Sliding down the length of the door, you sat on the tile, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them, making yourself as small as humanly possible in the dark.  

Your lips were still tingling, still alive with the memory of his skin. The rough texture of his stubble, the warmth of body heat, the faint smell of menthols, and whatever cologne he'd put on that you don’t recall him ever wearing.  

You dropped your forehead to your knees.

"Jesus Christ," you whispered to the empty hallway.  

Pasta and reimbursement, you had told yourself, that's the whole evening.    

If only past you knew the half of it.   

That night, she sits across from you at dinner without asking.  

“The meatloaf gave someone in unit C food poisoning last week,” she says flatly. “Doing you a favor.”

She quietly adopts you, teaching you little things. How to negotiate dosages getting lowered, which nurses are charmed by compliments so they'll write "good progress" in your file, how to fake cry your way out of group time.

“You don’t fight them,” she explains, very matter-of-fact. “That’s stupid. You make them think you’re no longer a problem. Then you get room to breathe.”

She volunteers for every art therapy session — not because she cares about the meditative experience of watercolour painting, but because it means more hallway time, more information, more of whatever it is she's always quietly collecting. She comes back with contraband graham crackers, fresh gossip whispered in your ear during lunch, and occasionally a new nurse wrapped around her finger thinking she's going to be a success story.

Days accumulate. You start giving her your chocolate pudding at lunch. She leaves you newspaper comic cutouts folded into neat squares. You find her unsettling at first. Then fascinating. Then necessary.

Some nights, she sneaks into your room. You always know it's her. The careful way the door closes, the coldness of her touch.

She'll slide under the thin blankets and press herself against your back, mouth resting between your shoulder blades. Her fingers, clumsy and icy, find your hair.

The moonlight catches the stupid, lumpy bracelets she made for the two of you in art therapy, beads spelling out your names. She wore yours. You wore hers.

“We're getting out of here."

She never says it like it's a silly daydream. It's simply a fact.

"Houdini escaped from a locked crate at the bottom of the East River. Submerged, chained, and he got out.” A pause. “A fucking nuthouse is amateur hour.” She paints a picture of a world outside the facility. Real food that doesn't taste like cardboard. A date in the bookstore her brother works at. A normal life where you can have the strings in your hoodie and the freedom to just breathe.

"We could have sex," she says, trying very hard not to laugh and failing slightly. "Like. actual sex. With a door that locks. In a bed with a frame. Crazy concept, huh?"

The concept was crazy, impossible even.