Riffs in Time

The days leading up to Friday had been a blur of nerves and anticipation. I was going to the MTV Awards—the MTV Awards. I used to watch this show religiously, sprawled on Roxy's floor, yelling over performances and dreaming about the day we'd be on that stage ourselves. And now, somehow, I was actually coming.

Except... not in the way I'd imagined.

I wasn't there with my band. I wasn't there as a nominee or a performer. I just be there—watching from the sidelines, floating in someone else's moment. It was exciting, sure, but also deeply bittersweet.

Still, if I was going to be there, I had to at least look like I belonged. I put in more effort than usual—black mini dress, sheer tights, pumps, and an oversized black coat slung over my shoulders. A silver chain necklace, a few rings, and smokey makeup completed the look. Just enough edge to feel like me, but polished enough to not look out of place.

The venue was massive. Lights flashed, cameras were everywhere, and the steady roar of the crowd outside hummed through the air. Inside, everything felt electric—industry people schmoozing, assistants rushing around, artists adjusting their outfits and psyching themselves up before the show. The whole place reeked of expensive cologne and artificial fog from stage effects.

Navigating the chaos, I made my way backstage, flashing my pass at security before stepping into a completely different world. The energy shifted—still tense, but more controlled. Crew members hurried past with headsets, techs double-checked gear, and clusters of artists stood around in their own little bubbles, waiting for their moment under the lights.

And then, I saw him.

Gerard stood with the band, mid-conversation, dressed in a black vest over a white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair had grown out slightly, dark strands falling over his forehead. The look suited him almost too well.

He looked good.

Annoyingly good. The kind of good that made my brain short-circuit for half a second before I reminded myself to get a grip.

Unfortunately, my brain wasn't getting the memo, because now I was noticing everything—Like the way the vest fit just right, or how his sleeves framed his forearms, the effortless mess of his hair. He looked...

Nope. Nope. We are not going there.

I immediately shut that thought down.

Instead, I smirked and said, "You kinda look like a teacher."

Gerard raised an eyebrow. "That's Mr. Way to you."

My heart did an embarrassing little flutter, which I immediately pretended didn't happen. But worse than that? My brain, completely unprompted, decided to remind me of all the questionable fanfiction I used to read in high school—where he was a teacher. I wanted to throw myself into the sun.

He had no idea how much he was feeding into his fans' fantasies just by dressing up like this— looking entirely too good for his own damn good.

I snorted, shaking it off. "Oh, so you are going for the teacher thing?"

Gerard smirked, adjusting his vest. "Gotta commit to the bit."

"You're about to give the crowd a pop quiz, aren't you?"

Jesus. I needed to shut up.

Every time he opened his mouth, it was like my ability to think critically took a nosedive. Maybe that was the real quiz—how to not get tongue-tied every time Gerard says something.