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a/n: oh man, i still can't believe this was an idea sent to me in november, and we're finally finishing it in july. time flies. hopefully, i properly expressed my thoughts in this final chapter. i had such a specific vision it was tricky to put on paper. anyways, thank you guys for reading and dealing with my hectic posting schedules !! xoxo, illi.
𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ November 2003. Sunday. ⊹ ࣪ ˖﹒
You'd been at this for three hours.
Three hours of a perfectly good Sunday morning that should've been spent on adult responsibilities—laundry, groceries, maybe answering the emails piling up in your inbox. Instead, you'd fallen down a research rabbit hole that had taken over your entire morning.
Yesterday's world-shattering question had been: What does Frank see when he looks at me?
Today's was: How do you press a stolen chrysanthemum?
You told yourself it wasn’t sentimental. It was absolutely not sentimental.
This wasn’t some mushy keepsake marking the beginning of something new with a boy who’d made you trip over your own feet outside your apartment building.
No way.
This was simply about…preservation.
You were a woman with an eye for aesthetics. It would’ve been a waste to discard something that still had some life left in it. The burnt orange would look striking framed against your living room wall, a pop of colour in your world of neutrals. Or perhaps, pressed between the pages of a book, a tasteful bookmark for your next read.
That was all this was. Purely for aesthetics.
Adjusting your reading glasses, you grabbed the notepad beside your laptop and scanned the notes from your deep dive into the surprisingly complex world of flower preservation.
Method One: Microwaving.
An eHow article titled "Press Flowers in MINUTES =)" promised flawless results with nothing more than a microwave, a paper towel, and thirty-second intervals. Simple. Efficient. Ideal for any curious beginner with a microwave and a dream.
For a moment, you considered it. Then you thought about your next plate of leftovers tasting faintly of a stranger's garden. The thought made you shudder. A line was drawn through the idea.
Method Two: Wooden Press.
A gardening forum recommended the traditional route: a wooden flower press. Users defended the method as if it were gospel, insisting that every alternative was a waste of time.
“Patience isn’t optional; it is PART of the ART. Rushing with heat is an INSULT ."
You rolled your eyes. The real insult would be dropping eighty dollars on equipment for a project you'd probably never do again. Another line was made.
Method Three: A Book.
A PDF you'd stumbled across offered the simplest approach: place the flower between parchment paper, sandwich it inside a heavy book, and wait. Seven to ten days for decent results. Two weeks for perfection. No insulting the art. No risking your leftovers. No spending money on equipment that would collect dust in the back of a closet. Just a clean final product.
Perfect.
Pushing back your chair, you went into the living room, crouched in front of the wooden bookshelf, and pulled out two heavy English textbooks and an encyclopedia for good measure.
Back at the kitchen table, you worked with the careful precision of a surgeon. The chrysanthemum rested on a fresh sheet of parchment paper, its delicate petals fanned with the tip of a pen. You were just moments away from finishing your work when the phone in your room pierced the silence.
Without a single doubt, you knew who it was.
Setting the pen aside, you made your way into your bedroom and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
“Yo, waddup girlie.”
The casual ease of it caught you completely off guard. Girlie. Like it was a title he'd been using for years, like it was simply what you were to him now in this brand-new chapter. Before you could decide whether you liked it or wanted to be offended by it, he pushed on.
"So. I'm having a situation this morning. A conundrum, if you will." He shifted around, the sound of fabric rustling as he settled in. "Typically, I'm a self-sufficient guy, y'know? Figure my own shit out. But this one's got me stumped. And I thought — who's the smartest person I know? Who's got a brain that makes Einstein look average?"
Your eyes narrowed behind your glasses. The concept of Frank asking for help—help specifically from you—was an automatic red flag. But that brain of yours, always so eager to problem-solve, was already intrigued. Not to mention, the flattery. As obvious as it was, it worked like a charm.
“What kind of conundrum?”
"Well." A long, theatrical sigh. "I think going out last night might've got me sick. My health's always been shitty, but this...this is freakin' me out a little, not gonna lie."
The alarm bells in your head quiet down. Why would he be freaking out about his health? "Are you okay?"
"I dunno." Frank’s voice dropped into something uncertain, stripped of its usual confident tone. "I've got a checkup tomorrow anyway, but I woke up this morning, and I'm wondering if I need, like, urgent care."
“Your skin?” Cradling the receiver between your shoulder and ear, you walked back to the kitchen, mentally running through different diagnoses. Mrs. Sartori did say he had food allergies. Was there cross-contamination in the kitchen? Did he have a delayed allergic reaction to something in the arrabbiata? “What’s it doing? Is it a rash? Hives? Is there any swelling—are your lips or tongue involved?”
"Whoa, whoa — slow down, Harvard." He chuckled, though it sounded strained. "It's nothing like that. It's just weird. And it's in a really specific spot."
"Where, Frank?"
“It’s on my face.” He responded. “It’s not itchy or anything, but it’s fuckin’ massive and red, and I don’t know what it is. Never seen anything like it.”
Although delayed anaphylaxis is rare, it wasn’t unheard of. For the first time ever, you felt genuine concern for Frank. Reaching the kitchen table, you grabbed your pen and notepad, ready to jot down his symptoms. "Okay, how big are we talking? Is it burning? Tingling?”
"I dunno, maybe like...the size of your mouth?"
The pen hovered over the paper.
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah.” His voice completely changed. The uncertainty that pulled at your heartstrings vanished, replaced with pure mischief. You could practically hear the shit-eating grin stretching across his face. “It’s shaped exactly like lips right here on my cheek. Weird, right? What do you think I should do?”
It felt like you were experiencing every human emotion at once. Mortification. Fury. The bizarre urge to laugh, because what was your life these past few days?
"You’re a fucking child.”
He absolutely lost it. His laughter burst through the receiver, loud and hiccupy, the kind of laugh that folded a person in half. "I'm serious! I woke up, looked in the mirror, and it's still there! I thought I had some kind of medical condition! I scrubbed my face raw, man—nothing! Can you blame me for being worried?"
“I’m hanging up.” You pulled the receiver away from your ear.
“Wait, wait, wait!” he pleaded between the hiccups. “Don’t hang up. C’mon, it was funny.”
"It was not funny. It was juvenile and manipulative."
"I’m like Dane Cook but with actual talent.”
You pressed two fingers to your temple, rubbing slow, hard circles. "Is there a point to this call? I'm busy."
“Okay, okay, listen.” He cleared his throat, attempting to pull himself together. “What are you doing Wednesday?”
You looked over your shoulder at the oversized wall calendar hanging beside the fridge. The remaining squares of November were mapped out in colour-coded blocks. Shifts at Mel's in blue, study group in green, monthly facial in pink. You scanned for Wednesday.
A blank square stared back.
“Why are you asking?”
“If you’re not busy,” he chose his words carefully, the vulnerability from last night's car ride creeping back into his voice. "We could go through that box. My grandfather's stuff. If you still want to."
You looked at the empty square for a long moment.
“I’m… very busy Wednesday. Extremely full schedule.” The lie was automatic. "However, I could potentially squeeze you in. Make space for an hour. Maybe two."
"Yeah? Does six work?”
"Six works."
"Okay. Cool." He sounded giddy, quickly rattling off his address. “Uh, hey.”
"What?"
“I had a good time last night.”
You were still annoyed by his childish stunt, annoyed that you’d stupidly believed he was in danger. But hearing the sincerity in his voice softened the edges of your irritation just a smidge.
"Yeah," you said, looking down at the chrysanthemum on the table. "I did too."
.ೃ࿔*:･
For over five minutes, you stood frozen in the narrow hallway of a walk-up on Joralemon Street.
In one hand, you clutched a crumpled MapQuest printout. In the other, a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. The wine had been a last-minute addition. Or rather, your mother's. Even now, years into adulthood, her voice lived rent-free in your head.
“You do not show up to someone's home empty-handed. That is not how I raised you.”
You'd stopped at the nearest liquor store on your drive over, grabbing the first bottle that looked expensive enough to pass as a thoughtful gesture. Now, standing in front of Frank's chipped apartment door, you were beginning to question the decision.
In the four months you’d known him, you'd never seen him touch anything that wasn't a can of Diet Coke or a Dunkin' coffee so overloaded with sugar it was practically dessert. The bottle suddenly felt ridiculous. In what world would Frank Iero drink a full-bodied wine?
You checked your watch. 6:11 PM.
Just knock.
It was a simple action, one you'd performed thousands of times without a second thought. Yet every time your knuckles inched toward the door, your arm gave out.
What if tonight was good too? What if the conversation flowed as easily as it had at dinner? What if every joke landed, every silence felt comfortable, and the evening stretched past the polite hour?
What if everything kept being...good?
You shifted your weight, the MapQuest printout growing damp in your palm. Swallowing down your nerves, you forced your hand forward and gave the door three firm knocks.
Silence.
Then — scrambling. The heavy thud of bare feet against a wooden floor. A muffled bang of something colliding with the wall, followed by a frantic string of curses, "Shit, shit, shit—fuck. Hold on!"
Before you could turn away, convinced you had the wrong address, the door swung open.
Frank stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling as if he'd just sprinted a mile. His hair was soaking wet, dark strands plastered to his forehead and curling at the nape of his neck. A bead of water broke free, tracing a slow line down the column of his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of a faded black t-shirt he'd thrown on inside out.
Your eyes followed the second droplet, tracking its path until it pulled you lower than intended. He wore a pair of heather-grey sweatpants that sat low on his hips, the article of clothing looking a bit too good on him.
Your eye twitched.
"Hey." He was still catching his breath, bracing a hand against the doorframe. "Sorry, I was in the shower. Lost track of time and—" His sentence died the moment he noticed the bottle in your hand. His eyebrow quirked up. "You brought wine?"
You straightened your spine, thrusting the bottle toward him. "I—yes. It's customary. To bring something. When you're invited. To someone's home. It's—my mother always—" You caught yourself mid-ramble, tightly pressing your lips together into a thin line. Stop talking. Stop. Talking.
He took the bottle, squinting at the label like it was written in a foreign language. "Cab-er-net...Sau-vig—" He gave up on the pronunciation halfway through. "Sounds fancy. You didn't have to do that."
"It's twelve-dollar liquor store wine. Not like I bought a vintage Bordeaux."
“Whatever the fuck that means,” he snorted, jerking his head for you to follow him inside. “C’mon in.”
The apartment was small. Small small. The kind of small that made your place look like it belonged in Alpine. You'd barely crossed the threshold, and you were already in the kitchen, the counters cluttered with unopened mail, cereal boxes, and an overloaded dish rack. His environment wasn’t dirty, but it was definitely lived in.
"Make yourself at home," Frank said, setting the wine bottle next to a box of Raisin Bran. "I don't think I own a corkscrew, but I'll figure something out. You want anything to eat, drink?”
"I'm fine, thank you." You politely declined, far too busy taking in your surroundings.
"You sure?" He pulled open the fridge, the door covered with band flyers, pizza coupons, and photo booth strips held up by a large New York Knicks magnet. "I got...Diet Coke. Obviously." Cans shifted and clattered. “Orange juice. My neighbor is Dominican and thinks I don’t eat enough, so I got Tostones if you're hungry...” More rustling. "I got Boca burgers in the freezer, Tofutti Cuties—"
He stopped. "Huh."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just....thought we finished these." He emerged from the fridge holding Tupperware, popping the lid to peer inside. "Had Friendsgiving a couple nights ago. Coulda sworn we wiped these out."
You eyed the container. "What is it?”
“Space cakes.” He nonchalantly tossed the container onto the counter. "My buddy Ray's girlfriend made 'em. Total hippie. Crystals, sage, talks to her plants, the whole nine. But she's insane in the kitchen. Best space cakes in Jersey, hands down."
Space cakes.
You knew about them, of course you did. But knowing and being around were two separate things. While your peers passed blunts at frat parties in New Brunswick, you were pulling all-nighters in the library, far too obsessed with maintaining a perfect GPA to experience the typical college girl life.
"Interesting." You took a step closer, peeking at the open container. The brownies looked...normal. Deep chocolate, dusted with a thick layer of powdered sugar. "What’s Ray’s girlfriend like?”
Frank pulled a Diet Coke from the fridge, closing the door with his hip. "Why? You a narc?"
"It's a simple question,” you shot back a little too quick, making yourself look exactly like a narc. "I'm here to learn about you. Your life. Your friends are part of that."
He narrowed his eyes, skeptical, the Coke can pausing halfway to his mouth. "Christa's cool. Studying culinary arts, been with Ray since forever. They're like, grossly in love. They'll probably be the first ones in our group to get married." He took a sip, shrugging. "She just makes these for special occasions."
You nodded, filing away the information. In school. Stable relationship. Reliable friend. Christa seemed safe. “And the...effects?”
Frank’s lips curled into a slow, devilish smile. "You've never smoked weed."
Your eyes snapped towards him. "That is not what I said. I'm merely asking about the physiological effects once ingested."
He barked out a laugh, "Holy shit. No way. No fuckin' way. You're using your little essay words to tell me you've never been in a room with a joint.”
"I’ve been in a room with a joint." Another lie, just as effortless as your first, claiming your schedule was too full to even be standing here. "I simply had better things to focus on."
"Uh-huh." He tilted his head, utterly delighted with his discovery. "Alright, Harvard. Space cakes are chill. They kick in slow, around an hour, hour and a half. Everything gets kind of..." he waved a hand, searching for the right word, "...soft. Warm. Brain gets quiet. It's nice."
Your brain hadn't been quiet in years. It was always running, always cataloguing, always three steps ahead. Even now, standing in his claustrophobic kitchen, the gears were still turning. The thought of it going still, even temporarily, was more appealing than you wanted to admit.
"And it's... safe?" You hated how small your voice sounded.
"Christa's been making these for years. Ray's the size of a linebacker; he needs a whole one, but—" he looked you over, considering, "—I'd give you a quarter. Maybe less."
"And... and how long does it last?"
"Three, four hours, usually. Depends." The teasing spark in his eyes shifted into something more observant. He leaned back against the counter, setting his soda aside. "Look. No pressure. We don't have to do anything. We can go through the box, listen to records, and call it a night." The reassurance came so naturally it caught you off guard. “But if you do want to try it, I've done this a hundred times. I know what to expect. I'll be here. Deal?"
Logically, trusting a man like Frank was asking for trouble. Seeing you squirm was his favorite form of entertainment, and the lipstick prank was proof of that. But the frustrating thing was, he didn’t look like he was trying to mess with you right now.
Not only was he promising safety, but he was also offering you an out.
You chewed your bottom lip.
"A quarter," you spoke up, taking a step closer. "Just a quarter."
He didn't move right away. He waited, giving you time to change your mind. When you didn't back away, only then did he reach for the container. He studied the brownies carefully, pinching off a corner, then a little more, soon presenting a dark triangle that sat in the center of his palm. “There.”
Before the second-guessing could paralyze you, you reached out and popped it into your mouth.
If you didn't know better, you'd think it was just a regular brownie. A very good brownie, actually. Rich chocolate, a slight earthiness underneath, the powdered sugar dissolving on your tongue.
"Well?" He watched your face as he reached in and pulled out a piece three times the size of yours, tossing it into his mouth with zero hesitation.
"It tastes like a brownie."
"Well yeah." He chuckled, chewing. "That's kind of the point."
You sucked the last of the powdered sugar from your fingertip while he rummaged the fridge again, pulling out an extra can of Diet Coke and setting it in front of you.
"So. You ready to see the box?"
.ೃ࿔*:･
The couch was a hideous thing—an olive green velvet horror that looked like it was rescued from the curb. You'd claimed the far end, maintaining a safe distance. Spine straight, knees together, posture pristine.
But at some point, that pristine posture started to loosen.
Vertebra by vertebra, your spine eased into the cushions. The space between you and Frank slowly shrank. Your knee drifted closer, his shoulder found yours. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you moved away.
Frank wasn’t lying; this was the quietest your minds had ever been. The noise was still there, but the volume decreased significantly. You were just here. Present with a boy listening to Stax 45s.
The box sat on the coffee table, its contents spread across. Datebooks with cracked spines, black and white photographs, stacks of vinyls, and a pair of drumsticks with F.J.I. carved crookedly into the wood.
Frank held a photograph up to the light. He'd been all smiles since the box came out, rambling excitedly about his grandfather like the man was a character straight out of a comic book.
"Here." He turned the photo toward you, practically vibrating. "This is him with The Marvelettes. I told you I wasn't lying."
You leaned in, taking it from his hand. A young Italian man in a sharp suit sat behind a drum kit, cigarette casually dangling from his lips. Posed beside him were The Marvelettes, their smiles brighter than their sequined dresses.
"He’s handsome.” You traced the curve of his smile, picking up the similarities between him and Frank. The shape of the eyes, the set of the mouth, that particular look of trouble.
"Right?" Frank leaned in to look at it again, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours. "My dad said the one on the left really liked him. Everyone liked him. He was, like—the guy, y'know? The one everyone wanted at their session. He could play anything."
You handed the photo back, and he was already reaching for the next one. A grainy snapshot of his grandfather caught mid-sentence. A photoshoot with his band, instruments gleaming under stage lights. And then, a colour photo. A small Frank cradled in the same man's arms. His grandfather was older here, but his smile was still radiant as chubby toddler hands cupped his weathered face.
The datebooks came next, held with thick rubber bands. Frank slipped one free and opened it to a random page.
"When I was a kid," he said, carefully moving through the yellowed paper, "I'd go to my grandmother's house and sit in her kitchen for hours reading my dad's and grandfather's datebooks."
He turned the book toward you, the pages filled with neat cursive.
ℛℯ𝒽ℯ𝒶𝓇𝓈𝒶𝓁 - 7𝓅𝓂.
𝒢𝒾ℊ 𝒶𝓉 𝒜𝓈𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓎 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒞ℴ𝓃𝓋ℯ𝓃𝓉𝒾ℴ𝓃 ℋ𝒶𝓁𝓁 - 10𝓅𝓂.
𝒞𝒶𝓁𝓁 ℳ𝒶𝓇𝒾𝒶.
"They were like superheroes to me. Cool-ass dudes going on cool-ass adventures. Every day was something new."
You found yourself watching him more than the datebook, watching how his eyes moved across the page like he was reading it for the first time. While the edible softened your walls, it had dissolved his entirely.
"Oh man—" He tapped a page, 𝒟𝓇𝓊𝓂 ℒℯ𝓈𝓈ℴ𝓃𝓈 𝓌/ ℱ𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓀𝒾ℯ - 1𝓅𝓂. "He tried to teach me drums, but it never clicked. Then my mom moved me to piano — hated that more. Ended up playing saxophone—"
A snort escaped before you could stop it.
Frank's head snapped up. "Whoa." His eyes went wide. "What was that?"
"Nothing." You reached for your Diet Coke, pressing your lips together, shoulders already starting to shake. You took a sip to cover it, but the fizz hit wrong, and your composure shattered.
The laugh came out raw and ugly, bypassing every filter you'd ever built. Your hand flew to your mouth, but another one escaped, louder and more nasally than the first.
The sound should have mortified you; you couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this in front of another person. But with your brain working at a gentle hum, shame was unable to get through to you. Instead, the laugh just felt...nice. Like scratching an itch you'd been ignoring for years.
"I've never heard you make that sound." Frank stared at you as if you'd just done something extraordinary. "You sound like a total nerd."
"I'm the nerd?" You scoffed, pointing a finger at your own chest in disbelief. "You were a band kid lugging around a saxophone."
"It was shiny." He said it like this was obvious, like the allure of a shiny instrument required no further explanation. "I thought it was sick. Lasted about a month before I figured out you can't smoke if you're playing wind instruments. Fuck that, dude.”
The mental image was clear as day: a scrawny, teenage Frank chain-smoking under the bleachers, crushing a cigarette before rushing to band class with an oversized case bumping against his knees. You pressed your lips together, but it was useless.
"Okay, fine." You set the soda down, swallowing the last of the fizz. "How'd you end up on guitar, then?"
He set the datebook down and picked up one of the 45s, turning it over in his hands before pushing himself up from the couch. "My dad," he answered, carefully sliding the record from its paper sleeve. "Found a bunch of punk cassettes under my bed. Got me a Fernandes Strat for my eleventh birthday."
He placed the record on the turntable. A soft pop-hiss crackled through the speakers, and then Sam Cooke's velvety voice filled the apartment.
"I had this band in high school—Steve Weil and the Disco Kings." He shook his head, grinning at the memory as he plopped back onto the couch beside you. "Oh, man. We were terrible. But we were so convinced we were the next big thing. We used to guilt-trip people into letting us play. Played a two-hour set once at this girl's sweet sixteen. She hated me."
“I would’ve gotten along with her.”
"Yeah, you would’ve." He chuckled. "You two would've been best friends plotting my demise."
His gaze fixed on the spinning record as he reminisced, his fingers tapping the rhythm against his knee. "But I was happy," he said, almost to himself. "Like...actually happy. For once in my life, I was excited to wake up in the morning."
You shifted in your seat, pulling your legs up to face him properly. "What do you mean, for once?"
Frank didn't answer right away. He moved his attention from the spinning record up to the ceiling, staring at its popcorn texture like the answer might be written somewhere up there.
"Take away music, I'm really not good at anything else,” he admitted quietly. “Makes me scared sometimes.”
You went still.
Frank Iero, scared?
The same Frank who walked into every room like he owned it. Who'd stood in Mel's break room and aimed that word at you like a dart, certain it would stick.
You'd spent days outrunning it. The show. The buttons. The parking lot. Every reckless, uncharacteristic thing you've done since Monday had been an attempt to prove that word didn't belong to you.
It had never once occurred to you to turn it around.
"You always know what you're doing,” he continued, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Like, you get dropped into any situation and you just...know. How to handle it. What to say. Which fork to use." A thoughtful pause. "Must be nice."
It should have felt like a compliment. Instead, it felt like a slap. "I don't."
He nudged your shoulder. "C'mon. Don't do the modest thing. You've got the whole world mapped out. Five-year plan, ten-year plan—probably a fifty-year plan hidden somewhere."
"Frank." You moved your shoulder away. "I'm not being modest."
He turned his head, looking at you with an expression so certain, so convinced that you were being humble. Something about that certainty and his inability to see how insulting he was being made you snap.
“You don’t get to throw that word at me,” your words came out sharp and direct, “You don’t get to call me scared and then act like you’ve been carrying it around too.”
He opened his mouth to backtrack, but you steamrolled over him.
“’You’ve got the whole world mapped out.’” You mocked his tone, the words tasting bitter. “I don’t belong anywhere, Frank. Do you not get that? Do you not see how much I have to plan? Everything I do is calculated. Every word, every outfit—God forbid I breathe wrong because I have to plan that out too.”
The ugly truth finally surfaced, pouring out before you could stop it.
"I don't know what I'm doing, I can't afford to not know. But you can. You can be loud. You can say the wrong thing. You can take up all the space in the world, and nobody—" You looked away, frustrated by the sudden blur in your vision. You hated this. You hated how weak you felt, how your own body was betraying you in front of him of all people.
Your hand curled into a tight fist. “Nobody makes you prove you’re worthy to exist. They just make room for you.”
Frank didn't answer. There was no deflection or an attempt at making things better. It was irrational; you knew it. Realistically, silence was the right answer, but it only fueled the fire.
"Oh, so now you want to be quiet?” You choked out. “It's so frustrating because I want that, I want to be seen so badly I can't stand it sometimes. That freedom. That permission to just be. You have it, and you don't even—" Your voice cracked, a sound so weak that it instantly made you armor up. "God. All of you idiots take it for granted. I hate you people.”
Frank remained completely quiet.
The silence ate you alive. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. What is wrong with you? You’d never lost control like that. Not once. And for what? To prove a point? To win an argument from Monday?
"I didn't mean—" you started, desperate to take everything back.
"Hey—"
"—to say all of that. I don't even know why I—" You shook your head, scrambling to string together something that was slightly comprehensible. "I don't do this. I don’t. God, please don’t...don’t see me as an angry cliché now. I’m angry, but I’m not a stereotype—"
"Hey—"
"—I'm too high, I look crazy. I need to go.”
You fumbled for your purse at the far end of the couch, already calculating the fastest route home. But before you could stand, Frank’s hand reached out, gently closing around your wrist. “Stay.”
You shook your head, trying to wiggle away. But he held on, tracing slow, steady circles against you — the same grounding motion he'd used at the restaurant to calm your frantic nerves. Cautiously, he shifted closer on the sagging cushions. “I don't want you to go.”
"Frank—"
“I really don’t.”
You opened your mouth to fight him, but the words died the second you looked into his eyes. You’d just vomited your deepest insecurities all over a perfectly good evening, and he was looking at you like you were still you. Like nothing you'd handed him tonight had changed his view.
His eyes dropped briefly to your lips, then flicked back up. A silent question hung in the charged air between you. You held his gaze, unable to hide what your eyes were already saying.
Leaning in, his mouth found yours. The touch of his lips was a testing pressure, as if he was terrified of spooking you further. The kiss was patient. It was kind. It was the opposite of everything you'd ever known.
Kissing him back was a graceless mess, your emotions and the high making your coordination clumsy. Your angle was wrong, your noses awkwardly bumping. You caught his lip ring twice, the cool metal clicking against your teeth. The tears hadn't stopped either, salt mixing with the faint taste of chocolate and Diet Coke lingering on his tongue.
When he pulled back it was only an inch, his lips still brushing yours as he spoke.
"People make room," he murmured against you, "But they don't listen. They don't actually give a shit about what I'm saying."
You shot him a watery glare, warning him to choose his next words carefully. “Don’t irritate me right now, Frank.”
“No—listen.” Insistent, he pressed his forehead against yours. “It was fucked up of me to act like life is a cakewalk for you. I’m not gonna pretend I get it, I don’t. But just hear me out for a second.”
You let out a tired sigh, but you didn’t pull away.
“People make you feel like you don’t belong, and I’m sorry I brushed that off. That was a dick move,” he started, his thumb still tracing your wrist. “But fuck man...It’s like you walk into a room and you make people respect you. Even when they want you to leave or think they know you, you command respect.”
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
"I don't have that. Before I can even get a word out, everyone’s already made up their mind about me. Loud kid from the shitty part of town. Dropout. Cheech's son who can't get behind a drum kit and carry on the Iero legacy—" He caught himself, shrugging off whatever it was he was about to say. "Whatever. Point is, it doesn’t matter what comes out of my mouth. Doesn't matter how hard I try. Nobody's actually listening."
He looked up at you, “You’re so smart,” he continued, his eyes filled with pure sincerity. "Like, actually smart. You think I've got freedom? Those degrees you’re getting? That’s your ticket out of Jersey.”
He gave your wrist a squeeze. “And you’re gonna make it out. You’re the only person I know who actually will. And that’s...” He trailed off, picturing your bright, tangible future. “That’s really fucking cool.”
The words kept coming, spilling out with the same urgency as your own confession.
“You’re gonna get your master’s or some fancy title I never knew existed. End up somewhere insane like California or New York, miles away from all these assholes. Be a real cool girl. The coolest girl.” A smile tugged at his mouth, never quite reaching his eyes. "Send me a postcard so I don’t lose my mind. I'll probably be a mailman or some shit. I’m fucked if music doesn’t work for me. Fuck man. Failed guitarist delivering mail.” A short pause. “Tape a gun to the postcard while you’re at it.”
He laughed quietly at his own joke.
You didn’t laugh.
You both knew he wasn’t joking.
For so long, you'd been certain you knew exactly who Frank Iero was. You misread his loud, brash exterior and the effortless way he claimed space as arrogant. An arrogance born from never having to justify your existence. It never crossed your mind that it was all an act, that he was performing just like you.
Reaching up, you held his face in both of your hands. His skin was warm, the texture of his stubble rough against your fingertips. You held him there, forehead to forehead, and took the time to look at him. You didn’t look at the guitarist or the boy who lived to get under your skin. You looked directly at the boy who didn’t know where he belonged.
“Someone's listening, Frank,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “Someone’s listening.”
He let out a low, self-deprecating huff. "Oh yeah, who?”
Rather than answering, you leaned in and showed him.
His jaw tightened under your palms, his whole body going still, unsure if this was real or some kind of edible-fueled hallucination. But the second he realized that this was real, he kissed you back like a starving man.
This kiss was hungrier than the first, the two of you sharing a craving that went beyond physical. It was a craving to be known. To know. To consume a person whole and understand them from the inside out.
He hooked an arm around your waist and hoisted you onto his lap in one smooth motion. Your hands were everywhere, eager to learn the shape of him. They slid over his chest, across his shoulders, and into the thick curls at the nape of his neck.
Your bodies were flush together, and it still didn’t feel like it was enough. Even if you could crack his ribs open and crawl inside, it still wouldn’t feel enough. Mindlessly, your hips rolled into him, chasing a feeling you didn’t have the words for. But with that roll, you met a hard line pressing against your inner thigh.
You gasped into his mouth, startled by your finding.
Frank pulled back instantly, his eyes wide. “Fuck—I’m sorry. I’m—tell me to stop, we can totally stop.”
It was bold. Far too bold for the girl who’d stood frozen in his hallway two hours ago, palms sweaty, rehearsing how to knock on a door. But that girl felt like a distant memory right now.
Instead of pulling away, you rolled your hips again, deliberately grinding against the hard line of him. His whole body jolted; a ragged “Fuck,” tore from his throat. He tipped his head back, a breathy laugh breaking free. “Yeah—yeah, okay. Fuck.”
Tightening his grip around your waist, he shifted his weight, rolling the two of you over. The sudden change in position caught you off guard, punching out one of those god-awful snorts of yours. Frank hovered over you, looking down at you like he’d been waiting all night to hear that sound again. “There she is.”
He pressed featherlight kisses across your face, across the curve of your brow, the heated apples of your cheeks, and down the long line of your throat.
As his lips trailed lower, his hand found the hem of your shirt. With a tug, he lifted it up and over your head, tossing it aside with the flick of his wrist. His eyes traced the newly exposed skin before his mouth followed the path, planting open-mouth kisses from your collarbone down to your quivering stomach.
He unbuttoned your jeans and hooked his thumbs into the waistband. You lifted your hips, helping him slide off the denim and lace. Once you were free, his mouth continued to worship. He kissed the soft arch of your right foot, working his way up the muscle of your calf. He repeated the ritual on your left leg, your muscles tightening as he inched closer to your core. He paused, feeling the sudden tension, "You okay?”
The boldness you’d displayed was starting to evaporate.
Just minutes ago, you were in complete control. Fully clothed, straddling him, dictating the pace. Now, stripped bare and pinned under his weight, the power shifted.
You didn’t want to stop, but handing over the one thing that has ever brought you comfort was something you weren’t sure you were ready for.
Frank watched you disappear back into your own head. Gently, he lowered your leg back down and reached for both of your hands.
“It’s just me,” he whispered, lacing his fingers through yours. “It’s just Frank.”
He dipped his head, pressing a soft, closed-mouth kiss against your folds. His eyes lifted immediately, searching your face for any sign of discomfort. Your stomach twisted into a nervous knot. Unable to hold his gaze, you squeezed your eyes shut and tightened your grip on his hands.
Frank didn’t mind the grip; if anything, he welcomed it. “You’re okay.” He cooed, treating your comfort like it was his only job in the world. With every patient kiss, the tension in your thighs melted away, and your grip on his fingers eased up.
Feeling you relax, he progressed.
His tongue parted you, a slow drag that made a high-pitched sound escape your throat. Frank reveled in that sound. With every flat lick and kiss, he listened. He adjusted his pressure and angle based on the tiny sounds you made, treating your body like an instrument he was determined to master.
“Frank—"
His grip on your right hand shifted, slipping free from your clutch. The sudden loss of contact made you whine in protest, needing some form of comfort during an act like this.
“I got you,” he promised, pressing a reassuring kiss against your thigh. “I’m right here. Just need my hand back for a second. Trust me.”
With his now free hand, he rubbed against your entrance, coating a finger with your wetness before sinking inside. The stretch made you gasp as he curled upward, hitting a spot your own fingers could never quite reach.
Your thighs immediately clamped together, caging his head.
He hummed with approval, “Yeah, that’s it. Hold me still.”
Frank’s mouth sealed over your clit, sucking the bundle of nerves while his finger kept up a steady rhythm. Your brain short-circuited, the dual sensation making you see stars. A shaky hand shot out, gripping a handful of his hair to push him deeper. He let out a groan, in love with the pain you inflicted upon him. Craving more of those tugs, he slipped in a second finger, cursing under his breath feeling another yank.
Your legs began to shake uncontrollably. The fluttering in your stomach was now a violent twitch, warning you of the building pressure. Your hips moved against his mouth, chasing the release you could feel coming.
“Frank —” you tried to warn him, choking on your own words. “Frank, m’gonna—”
Your head tilted back as your orgasm crashed through you, a series of electrifying pulses that made your toes curl and your back arch off the couch. But that wasn’t enough for Frank. His mouth remained sealed over your clit, his fingers working ruthlessly to milk every last tremor from your body.
“O-Offa me, Frank—!” you sobbed, pushing weakly at his head. “P-Please—please—”
He ignored your pleas, pulling out one last desperate sob before withdrawing his fingers with a wet pop. He looked up at you from between your thighs with a glistening face, a proud grin plastered across his lips as if he’d just won the lottery. Your face burned, mortified with your release and how proudly he wore the evidence.
“Stop looking at me,” you attempted to sound stern, but your voice embarrassingly cracked.
Far too pleased with himself, he pushed up from your thighs to meet your lips. The taste of yourself was heavy on his tongue, musky yet intimately sweet. “You’re so fuckin' pretty,” he murmured against your mouth, “So pretty and mean.”
“I’m not mean—” Your words were cut short, a breathy sigh leaving you as his teeth found the curve of your jaw.
“Always two seconds away from biting my fuckin’ head off.” He pressed his full weight into you, the clothed, hard line of his length rubbing against your wet, overstimulated core. You hooked your legs around his hips, rocking up to meet him. His mouth traveled down to your throat, his voice tickling your pulse point as he hummed along to the record softly spinning on the turntable.
"For nothing else will matter, in the world, as long as I have you—"
But mid-lyric, the humming slowed. Then stopped.
Frank pulled back just enough to look at you. The playful grin was still there, but something in his face had gone soft. It was the same softness he wore when holding his grandfather’s photograph, as if he looked long enough, he could somehow live in the moment forever.
“I said stop looking at me.” You turned your head, the weight of his stare making you feel more naked than you already were. “And take your stupid shirt off. Be fair.”
He didn’t argue. He sat back on his heels and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head.
You blinked.
You knew he was tattooed; you’d seen his arms and that dreadful spot on his neck. But you assumed that was the extent of it.
Oh, how you were wrong.
You drank in the lean muscle of his body, your eyes tracing the ink that decorated his torso. As he turned to toss his shirt aside, you caught a glimpse of a piece that spanned his shoulder blades, thick dark lines you wouldn’t mind learning by touch.
With your legs still loosely wrapped around his hips, you dragged your foot against the waistband of his sweatpants. A silent request for further fairness.
“Bossy.” He chuckled, pushing the cotton low enough to free himself.
You swallowed, your mouth going dry.
He wasn’t huge, but he was thicker than you expected. You watched as he gave himself a few slow strokes, the head flushed a dark pink, veins prominent along the length. The sight of him like that, fully hard and preparing himself for you, sobered you up in an instant. Another spike of fear hit you.
Fueled by anxiety, you reached out, quickly grabbing the hand that held you through your first orgasm. Puzzled, Frank glanced down at your joined hands. But slowly, he understood. He brought your intertwined hands up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
With his other hand still wrapped around his cock, he carefully guided himself towards your entrance. You felt the warm, heavy pressure of him rub against you, making you instinctively clench around nothing.
"Easy," he comforted, resting his forehead against yours. "S’just me. Just Frank.”
Gradually, he sank inside.
You squeezed your eyes shut, your nails biting into the back of his hand. For a second, it was too much—physically, emotionally, the fear you felt threatening to swallow you whole. But Frank didn’t rush. He remained perfectly still inside you, giving your body the time it needed to comfortably adjust and accept him.
“Look at me.”
You stubbornly shook your head, turning to bury your face into the couch cushion. Absolutely not, not like this.
“Cmon.” His tone was careful and slow, approaching you like a wild creature that might bolt if he made the wrong move. “Just a little. One small peek. For me?”
Your jaw tightened, your eyes squeezing even tighter, a last-minute attempt to regain some type of control. But hearing his voice, so soft, so patient, attempting to reason with you made the attempt feel silly. Taking a deep breath, you forced your eyes open, meeting a pair of eyes so fond of you.
“There’s the pretty girl.”
He slid nearly all the way out, a slow, torturous withdrawal before burying himself back inside. The stretch punched all the air from your lungs, your inner walls clenching around him in a vice-like grip. “Yeah?” He repeated the movement, completely sliding out and filling you right back up. “You like being taken care of?”
You felt yourself further shy away, because the truth was, you did. Underneath all those rigid layers of yours, a part of you craved this. Craved to be held, to be soothed, to have your rawest self handled by gentle hands.
“That’s it,” his hips found a rhythm, his pelvis brushing against your swollen clit with every stroke. “Just let me take care of you.”
Chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat, Frank moved inside you with deep, unhurried thrusts. Your interlaced hands rested against the cushion beside your head, his thumb tracing those reassuring circles against your knuckles. The room filled with the sound of your shaky synchronized breaths, accompanying the low soulful hum of the record in the background, singing about love and bone-deep desire.
The tears came back, hot streaks tracking down your temples into your hairline. You’d already cried, cried way too much for a single night. The fact that you still couldn't stop made you furious with yourself. Yet Frank didn’t flinch. Instead of conveying a look of disgust like you still expected him to feel, his expression remained loving, watching you unfurl before him.
“You’re so sensitive.” He observed, pressing a series of kisses against your cheek, his teeth lightly nipping the damp flesh. “Big, scary tough girl...just a crybaby under all that mean.”
You turned into the bite, your lips fixing into a wobbly pout rather than forming a nasty retort.
“Let it out,” he whispered, his tongue soothing the spot his teeth had bruised. “I got you.”
He adjusted the tilt of his hips, searching, carefully listening to your body until he found that spot he’d discovered earlier with his fingers. He pressed against it with his thick head, giving the spot his full, undivided attention. You nearly crushed the bones of his hand trying to hold yourself together for just a few seconds longer, wanting to relish the feeling of him. "F-Frank, you’re gonna make me cum too fast—"
Frank was lost in the tight wet heat of you. "That’s it," he breathed, driving into you with a brand new intensity. "Fuck, that pussy squeezing my dick so good, so good for me. Y’gonna cum for me again? Gonna show me how much of a crybaby you really are?”
His words were filthy, yet ever so tender. You cradled his head as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, your fingers tangling in his disheveled brown curls. You could feel Frank losing his composure, his moans primal beside your ear as the wet sound of flesh on flesh grew louder.
"Where?" His voice was strained, hanging by a thread. "Where do you want me to cum? Tell me—fuck—tell me where you want it."
The question captured your heart, squeezing it with a death grip. In a moment where most men would simply take, he was giving you the choice. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, pulling him as deep as humanly possible. “Inside,” you begged, lips pressed to his sweaty temple. “Please—inside.”
His hips stuttered, the sweet sound of your voice granting him permission shattering the remains of his control. He drove into you three more times, three final animalistic thrusts before spilling inside. A long, guttural groan followed as he emptied himself, the hot rush of his climax triggering your own. Your second orgasm hit, stronger and more intimate than the first, your bodies locking together in a shuddering embrace.
For a moment suspended in time, the two of you held each other in silence, the air thick with the scent of sex. Frank was the first one to move. Still buried inside you, he propped himself up on his elbows. His face was flushed a deep rose, the heat making the freckles scattered across his nose more prominent. His hair stuck up in wild tufts from where you grabbed, and his eyes were wide, bright, and alert. Even wrecked, he still vibrated with too much energy that felt impossible for a human.
“What if I got 07/16/03 tatted on me?”
You blinked a few times, your brain too slow to follow. “...What?”
“07/16/03.” He tapped his chest, right over his heart, “Right here.”
You rubbed a hand over your face; for a split second, you regretted having sex this man. The last thing you wanted to discuss post-orgasm was his impulsivity. “Why? Why are you asking me stupid shit right now?”
“I don’t think it's stupid.” Frank shrugged, “It’s a good date.”
“Then get a calendar,” you scoffed, your voice regaining its bite. “You can look at the date all day instead of tattooing a random day of the week on your chest.”
“It’s not a random day,” he countered, visibly amused with how quick you were to rile up. “It's the day my life got interesting.”
You let out a defeated sigh, but you took the bait anyway, giving him a chance to explain this ever-so-important tattoo. “Fine. What could have possibly happened that’s worth tattooing a date?”
He tilted his head, his amusement morphing into something more genuine.
“It’s the day I met you,” he said simply. “The day we became coworkers.”
His words hit you, pulling you back in time.
.ೃ࿔*:･
July 16th, 2003.
A sweltering Wednesday afternoon at Peaceful Mel’s Records. For days, Mel had been talking about his newest hire, raving about him like he was the best thing since sliced bread. “You’re gonna love him, kid,” he said, waving a fresh stick of patchouli incense, “Reminds me of you. Sharp. Smart with his music. He’s gonna bring good energy to this place.”
You expected someone precise. Knowledgeable. Someone with chic taste you could rub shoulders with during lunch.
You did not expect someone like Frank.
The moment you saw him, you looked at Mel like he’d lost his mind.
Frank walked in like he already owned the place, his presence bigger than the shop itself. Stretched ears, jeans sagged too low, and God was he a talker—already running his mouth too much for your liking.
What could someone like him possibly offer here? And more importantly, how did Mel see you in that?
Since day one, he pestered you.
Despite your efforts to keep all interactions minimal, he was like a pesky fruit fly, and you were his summer fruit of choice. He'd throw stale jokes that never landed. He’d sprinkle in unsolicited commentary on how thoroughly you vacuumed the shop’s rug. He’d deliver Weird New Jersey facts before your first sip of morning coffee. Each attempt at communication was met with an icy glare, hoping he’d eventually get the hint.
He didn’t; the disdain in your eyes only attracted him more.
By the end of the month, Frank finally managed to grab your attention. Not because he’d suddenly earned it, but because he touched something he had no right to lay his hands on.
Towards the end of every month, you and Mel had a ritual. Over a cup of tea, you would stay after hours with a distributor catalog spread out between you, hunting albums that deserved a home at Peaceful Mel’s. Mel trusted your ear, constantly telling customers and anyone that would listen how you were his right hand. It was your favorite part of the job. It made you feel seen. It made you feel like your opinion truly mattered.
However, this month, there was no catalog waiting for you.
"Already handled it, sweetheart,” Mel patted your back, “Let Frank take a crack at it. A way to welcome him to the team, yknow?”
Your eye twitched. No, no, you didn’t know.
The shipment arrived Friday morning. Before the shop opened, you and Frank sat in the stockroom, surrounded by stacks of unopened boxes. Grabbing a box cutter, you got to work.
Immediately, your stomach sank.
Shai Hulud, Avail, Converge.
You checked the next box, then the one after that. Surely there had been a mistake. Perhaps a shipping error? Someone must have received Mel’s order; no way he greenlighted this.
“Fuck yeah, dude.” Frank was elbow deep in his box, pulling out CDs like it was Christmas morning. “Oh man, I want to take this whole box home. This is sick.”
Your eyes moved from the box, to Frank, then back to the box. This can’t be....
“Are you responsible for this?”
Frank looked up, “What do you mean?”
You held up a CD. “What is this?”
“Good music?” It still wasn’t clicking, his head tilting like a confused dog. “Mel let me pick out—”
“Good music!” A humorless laugh echoed in the tiny room. “Yes yes, of course! I’m sure our clientele will just love—” you checked the title “Songs About Fucking. Mel hired a real expert.”
The excitement on Frank’s face disappeared. “Whoa, slow your roll. I just thought the floor needed variety. It was looking...stale, no offense.”
“No offense?” You stood up, gripping the CD tight enough to crack its plastic. “Look. I’ve kept my mouth shut since the day you got here. But when it comes to the music in this store, I refuse to let someone who has been here for two weeks think they have the freedom to change things.” You took a step closer. “There are rules here. There is order here. I don’t have time for whatever this is.”
Frank stared at you like you'd suddenly sprouted a second head.
“It’s good music, that’s what it is.” He repeated, rising to his feet. “I know what I’m doing; that’s why I got hired. Maybe you should actually listen to it before you start running your mouth.”
You were going to kill Mel.
Comparing you to Frank was one insult. But handing over your monthly ritual to some random white boy that called your carefully curated work stale? That wasn’t just disrespect. It was betrayal.
“There is nothing here worth listening to and it will show in this month's income report.”
Frank didn’t back down. “Are you deaf? I said listen to it. You can’t have a real opinion on something you know nothing about. Listen and maybe then you’ll get it.”
You rolled your eyes. “I should be saying the same to you. How dare you call my selections stale when I know for a fact you’ve never listened to Françoise Hardy a day in your life.”
Frank let out a dry, challenging laugh. “Yknow what? Let's trade.”
“What?”
“Trade.” He tapped the CD still clutched in your hand. “You listen to Big Black. I’ll listen to Fran—whoever the fuck. We report back Monday morning.”
You stared at him. The offer was childish, a complete waste of time. But the urge to prove him wrong, to restore order, was strong enough to blur logic. “Fine.”
July 16th was the day you had kissed your peace goodbye.
To him, it was a day worth tattooing.
.ೃ࿔*:･
“You still with me?”
Frank’s voice pulled you back from the dusty stockroom into his apartment, his face hovering above yours. You stared at the finger still pressed to his chest, imagining the numbers marking his skin.
07/16/03.
Bold, black ink right above his beating heart.
“You’re high, and you’re being reckless,” you spoke up, attempting to shake some sense into him. “Ink is permanent, Frank.”
“So is meeting you.”
He said it with such certainty, like it was some law of the universe not even you could dispute. Before you could formulate another response, he lowered his face back into the crook of your neck, his hips beginning to move again. It wasn’t the frantic pace of a man chasing another climax. It was the pace of a man savoring the woman he’d chosen the moment he saw her.
“Think about it,” he hummed against the shell of your ear, “Don’t gotta decide now. Just....think about it.”
Your brain tried to do what it always did when faced with vulnerability: create distance and start an argument. It wanted to list your differences. To remind him, and yourself, that you were difficult. To highlight that your worlds were never meant to collide and how it would be logical to keep things at arm's length.
But for the first time in your life, you questioned the logic. Rather than immediately building a wall, you stopped and asked yourself a question you’d spent your life avoiding.
What do you want?
Outside the structure. Outside the rules. Outside of that lonely bubble of yours that kept you safe.
What was it that you truly wanted?
You thought about the napkin.
You thought about the night in Bloomfield.
You thought about the Pasta Shop and the stolen chrysanthemum in your hair.
"This five-year plan... it got any space in it?"
You wrapped your arms around him and closed your eyes.
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oh wow wow wow idk how i've never seen this vid before of frank getting a pin taken out of his wrist before (under the cut bc i dont want autoplay jumpscaring anyone who doesn't wanna see it lol)
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just wanted to say that umm u're the best😋 no really, i'm obsessed with your mind and the stories that come out of it. you're actually one of my favs on this site, GIRL BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY THAT THE THINGS YOU WRITE AND THE WAY YOU WRITE THEM ARE THE GREATESTTT
anyway u're amazing, never stop doing what you like anddd yeah lyy wish you days full of rainbows n' sunshine💭
oh this is so kind, thank you.
i'm in a weird spot where i somewhat despise everything i make. designs, art, writing, etc. like you know you can do better, but you never know how, so it's this limbo of doubt, restarting, and running yourself dry chasing this "perfect" final product you know is unattainable because what is perfect?
i often want to delete old stories on here, as i do with most things, but i know people enjoy them ^^;
anyways, again, you're very very kind. ly2 and wishing you well xx
We don’t talk about this picture enough. whole ass out at a Dunkin’ Donuts. Stressed and on the phone in the middle of a fan interaction. Probably in his luteal phase too.
i think about this photo so often. he looks so stressed, like he’s arguing with a girlfriend.
you’re in the worst relationship playing phone tag with each other, calling his phone until that shit breaks. you’ll email this man just to get a point across and he’ll do the same.
lord knows you two should break up but the breakups last a week max and then you’re back on your bullshit
Sigh, you and illi as two beautiful Hollywood starlets set in the 1920s who have a secret love affair you cannot disclose, and it gets harder to keep a secret as you work on a film together …. </3
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a/n: hello friends, how are you? i’m sorry for being gone. i tried explaining why, but ended up scrapping it. i often delete posts when i feel a bit cringe. anyway, thank you for being so patient with me. i hope you enjoy this new chapter. xoxo, illi.
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 or 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 curated 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 sarcastic remark or anything that would make you regret attempting an apology. Just that. A considering sound, not quite sure what to do with the words handed to him.
"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. “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.
"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 or 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 nightmare.
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.
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 good quality. His hair was still a mess, but a different kind of mess—like he’d run a hand through it with actual intention.
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.
Impulsively, 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 path of skin. 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 eyes 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.
“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.
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.
"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 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, waiting for you to navigate through 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.” 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 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.
It wasn’t 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 melody 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 way he held your hand in his.
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, 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, impulsive, and utterly dumb.
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 his rough cheek, an inch away from his mouth. The contact was brief but firm, leaving behind a crimson stamp.
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. You expected to hear an engine revving or maybe a door slam. Absolutely nothing, just pure silence.
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.
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