Friday at the studio was different. Gerard was different.
He didn't slink in like usual with his headphones clamped down and that cloud hanging over him. No hunch in his shoulders, no frown. He walked in like he belonged there—relaxed, soft smile, greeting everyone like we weren't used to him avoiding eye contact for entire sessions.
Ray tilted his head slightly, then scanned the room to see if he was the only one seeing this—like Gerard had been swapped with a better-adjusted clone and nobody told him. "Are you... not brooding today?"
Gerard looked at Ray, "Do you want me to?"
Ray shook his head violently.
Mikey raised both brows. "Okay, but seriously, what have you done to my brother?"
Gerard shrugged, casually. "Thought I'd try being tolerable for once."
Frank shot me a look over his coffee, one brow raised. I pretended not to notice.
As we settled into our usual spots to work on the bones of what would become Bulletproof Heart, something else became obvious: Gerard was talking more. Not just tossing out ideas and then retreating into the background, but actually bouncing off of people's suggestions. At one point, Frank picked up his guitar and started messing around with a riff, and Gerard's eyes lit up like someone had just handed him a gift.
"Wait—do that again," Gerard said, sitting forward quickly. "That's it. That's the start."
Frank blinked, surprised. "Seriously?"
"That's exactly the kind of momentum this thing needs," Gerard said, grinning. "It's perfect."
Frank looked down at his guitar, stunned. "Okay, what the hell is going on? A compliment from the Gerard Way?"
"Shit," Gerard said, "I don't say that enough, huh?" then he paused, looking a little sheepish.
"I mean it though," Gerard added quickly, sitting up straighter . "That riff? It's what this song needed. You nailed it."
"Oh my God," Frank said, slapping his chest. "We miss one writing session and now suddenly Gerard's talking? Complimenting? Engaging with the group?"
Gerard rolled his eyes. "You're being dramatic."
"Yes, I'm dramatic," Frank confirmed, pointing at himself. "But you—you're acting like you're a different person."
Ray leaned in, stage-whispering, "You think he found Jesus?"
"Honestly, I'd support it if this was the result" Mikey muttered. "This is the first time in weeks I haven't wanted to launch his headphones into a river."
They all looked at Gerard.
Then at me.
I tried to play it cool. Shrugged. Looked at a cable on the floor like it was the most interesting thing I'd ever seen. But inside, my brain was doing cartwheels.
Frank's eyes narrowed. "Yana. What did you do to him?"
"I—nothing," I said quickly. "We went to laser tag. He beat me. That's it."
Gerard snorted softly behind his coffee cup. "She was such a sore loser."
"I was not!"
"You threw a foam brick at me."
"I stand by that."
"You still mad about the big gap between our scores?" he asked, leaning slightly toward me.
"Depends," I said, crossing my arms. "Are you still gonna gloat?"
"Absolutely."
I rolled my eyes. "Then yeah, I'm still mad."
He laughed, bumping his shoulder against mine. "Fair."
The guys laughed, and as the sound settled, Gerard caught my eye with a smirk that lingered just a beat too long. It wasn't just the way we cracked dumb jokes—he was still happy. Still joking. Still in it. And I was just glad to be in it with him, not walking on eggshells or trying to decode every sigh or pause. Just... existing. Together.
When the session hit a lull, Gerard got up and headed outside. The conversation started with Frank casually asking, "So what really happened while we were gone?"
I told them everything—laser tag, dinner, Gerard being actually bearable. But as I talked, I started hitting these mental speed bumps. His relapse. That toxic relationship he hinted at. The part where he said he wasn't planning on dating anyone again. All those pieces of truth he dropped, quietly, like confessions. Stuff he never meant for anyone else to hear.
I left those out. They weren't mine to share.
But of course, they noticed.
Ray squinted. "You're hiding something."
"I'm not," I said, a little too quickly.
Frank crossed his arms. "Yana, c'mon. You're not exactly subtle. What are you not telling us?"
"I told you the important parts," I said with a forced smile.
Mikey raised an eyebrow. "And the parts you didn't tell us?"
I sighed. "Look, it's not mine to talk about."
They went quiet for a beat. Not accusatory. Just... curious. Too curious.
I needed to get out of that room. My head was spinning. The things Gerard had trusted me with were still sitting heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs like they were trying to crawl out. And as much as I loved the guys, I wasn't sure how to draw the line between protecting someone's privacy and being honest with people I cared about.
"I'm gonna get some air," I mumbled, standing up before anyone could follow that up. Hoping the fresh air would calm the guilt curling at the edges of my brain.
The air was sharp when I stepped out the back door, the sun low enough to cast everything in that pretty, golden glow. Gerard was leaning against the wall, one foot kicked up behind him, a cigarette already between his lips. He lit it, exhaled, and looked surprised to see me.
I walked up beside him, hands stuffed in my hoodie. "You know that's gonna kill you, right?"
Gerard smirked. "That's kind of the point."
"Edgy," I said dryly. "Very emo of you."
He flicked ash onto the pavement, then glanced at me. "You ever tried one?"
"Nope." I leaned against the wall beside him. "But I'm curious."
"Wanna give it a shot?"
"Maybe," I said, heart pounding for absolutely no reason except that Gerard was standing there with half-lidded eyes and a tiny smirk like this was no big deal.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pack, tapping one out and handing it to me. I took it, a little awkwardly, like it might combust in my hand if I held it wrong.
But when he flicked his lighter again, nothing happened.
He tried once. Twice. Click, click. Nothing but spark and frustration.
Gerard groaned. "Of course."
I laughed under my breath. "Guess that's a sign."
But then he straightened, took a drag of his own cigarette, and said, "Nah. Here, come closer."
"What?"
He gestured. "Just hold it to your mouth and inhale. Just... trust me."
I stared up at him,. "Is this, like, a weird initiation thing?"
"Less hazing, more... old school workaround," he said, moving a step closer.
I obeyed, hesitantly raising the cigarette to my lips. It felt foreign, stupid, but I held it there anyway, trying not to tremble like a goddamn baby bird.
Gerard stepped even closer.
And then—his cigarette, still lit, still between his lips, came toward mine. His free hand landed lightly on my shoulder, steadying me.
I froze.
He was so close I could feel the warmth from his skin through my hoodie. Our faces were inches apart. This didn't feel like just a favor. This felt... intimate. Too intimate.
My brain started to spiral—was this normal friend behavior? Friends didn't usually stand this close, right? I mean, maybe sometimes. Maybe when it was loud or crowded or someone needed help lighting a cigarette without a lighter—but even then, this felt different. His hand on my shoulder, his breath so close to mine. It felt like kissing. Or something just next to it. Not quite there, but not far either. Like a door left slightly ajar. Or maybe I was imagining it. Maybe it meant nothing.
Before my brain could spiral further, I shut it down. Fast. I wasn't about to ruin whatever this weird, easy thing between us was by overthinking it. Again. I'd done that before—picked apart a moment until it didn't feel good anymore. This was only friendship. That's what I kept telling myself. Just a quiet, strange kind of friendship.
Gerard inhaled, holding his cigarette steady between his lips as he leaned down to meet mine. The ends of our cigarettes met—just a soft touch—and a second later, mine flared to life. A tiny spark, then the faint sizzle of ignition, like it had been waiting for the moment to happen.
The moment it lit, I inhaled, startled, and immediately coughed, hard—my hands latching onto my chest. I turned my head fast, letting the cough drag me a few steps away before I could unravel any further over how close we'd just been.
"Holy—shit." I wheezed, choking a little. "That tastes like battery acid."
Gerard laughed softly. "That's because it kinda is."
But I wasn't hearing him anymore.
Because he'd been this close. His cigarette had touched mine. His mouth was inches from mine. The smoke still hung in the air between us, a halo of secondhand destruction.
And I—I was internally SCREAMING.
I tried to play it cool. Exhaled shakily. "Well. That was anticlimactic."
Gerard's smirk softened. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I said. "Fine. Just thinking about how I'm gonna sue you if I die of lung cancer tomorrow."
He chuckled, looking down, the toe of his boot tapping against the concrete. "Fair enough."
I took another puff, slower this time, mostly for show. Mostly to buy myself time to suppress the thought that this was anything more than just friendship.
That my crush—which I had tamed to be this quiet, mostly-behaved background noise—was now blazing in my chest, impossible to ignore, impossible to reason with.
That if I just leaned in, just a twitch, a breath away.
If I just closed the gap...
Gerard leaned against the wall again, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette away and letting it fizzle out in the pavement. We stood there in silence, smoke curling around us.
"You're not gonna finish that," he said after a minute, nodding toward the cigarette still limply held between my fingers.
"Nope."
He reached out, took it from me without a word, and brought it to his lips. He took one final drag, slow and thoughtful, before flicking it into the pavement with his own. "Smart."
I shoved my hands into my hoodie pocket and looked up at the sky, pretending to admire the clouds instead of panicking over the fact that his mouth had just touched something that had been between my lips. I told myself it didn't matter. That it was nothing. Just smoke. Just a stupid cigarette. But the thought lingered anyway, curling in my chest like the smoke still hanging in the air.
He didn't say anything else. And neither did I.
But the silence wasn't empty.
It was heavy. Charged.
Eventually, he pushed off the wall. "We should get back in."
"Yeah."
We walked in side by side, neither of us mentioning what just happened. Inside, Mikey and Frank were mid-debate at the couch, voices raised in mock outrage.
"Clerics have divine magic and healing," Mikey was saying, animated.
"Yeah, but wizards have fireball, Mikey!" Frank argued back, hands flying everywhere.
Gerard gave them a flat look. "That debate again?"
Ray grinned from across the room. "They've been at it since you left."
We got back to work, and somehow, the momentum stuck. Everyone clicked into place again. Frank played through the riff a few more times while Mikey and Ray layered over it, and Gerard—still weirdly energized—stepped into the booth with a confidence we hadn't seen in weeks. He adjusted the headphones, gave a thumbs up to the control room, and started singing. His voice carried through the speakers, rough around the edges but full of purpose, shaping the track in real time with a clarity that locked everyone into place.
By the end of the session, the song was done. Not perfect—the sound engineers would still have to clean it up and mix it right—but the bones were solid. The song was there. It was done.
Gerard leaned back in his chair, pencil tucked behind his ear. "I think I'm calling it... 'Trans Am.'"
I wrinkled my nose. "Like the car?"
He smirked. "Yeah. Why?"
"Because it sounds like something a dude who's obsessed with his car would name," I said, but what I really meant was, because it's not the name. Not the one it's supposed to be.
Ray snorted. "She's not wrong."
Mikey gave a one-shouldered shrug. "It's catchy though."
Gerard paused, tapping the edge of his notebook. The grin he had started with faded a little, like he was finally clocking the fact that maybe the title didn't land the way he thought it would. "Alright," he said, voice thoughtful now. "I'll think about it."
We were already packing up—guitar cases closing, notebooks snapped shut, someone tossing out the last of the coffee cups. The guys, clearly not ready to let the good vibes end, started throwing around suggestions for where to eat. Someone floated the idea of getting takeout, Ray shot it down, and Frank announced, "I wanna sit in a booth. I miss sitting in a booth."
"We should go somewhere with breadsticks," Mikey added.
"Breadsticks and pasta," Frank confirmed. "That's the dream."
"Alright," Ray said, slinging his bag over his shoulder, "there's that Italian place down the block. The one with the mural of a raccoon eating spaghetti."
"Yes!" Mikey said. "Dude, that raccoon is so fat."
Gerard chuckled and casually turned to me. "You need a ride?"
Before I could answer, Frank threw his arm around my shoulder like he'd just claimed a prize at a fair. ""Nope! She's with me. Gonna figure out what magic spell she used to fix your ass."
I stared at him, thrown off. "What?"
Frank grinned, dragging me toward the door. "We're carpooling. Come on, don't make this weird."
"Don't make what weird—"
Gerard just smirked at us, clearly amused. "Try not to crash."
"Says the guy who drives 10 miles per hour over the speed limit." Frank shot back.
The drive with Frank was the usual kind of chaos. He blasted music so loud it rattled something in the dashboard, dodged potholes like it was a video game, and took every corner like there was no tomorrow. I clung to the door handle at least twice and accepted that we were just built different when it came to the concept of safe driving.
Somewhere between yelling the wrong lyrics and swerving to avoid a squirrel, he glanced at me. "Hey. You and Gerard."
I looked at him. My heart did a small, guilty somersault before I could even pretend to play it cool. "What about us?"
"You're actually getting along now. That's cool."
"Yeah," I said carefully. "It's been...nice lately."
Frank nodded, but I caught the way his jaw tightened slightly. "I'm glad."
"Just—y'know. Keep your wits about you. He's good at opening up and then slamming the door shut again." He continued.
I looked out the window. "I know."
Frank gave me a sidelong glance. "And the crush?"
I paused, just for a second. "I'm over it." I looked out the window, avoiding any eye contact.
He nodded, more casual this time. "Oh right. You found your ick, huh?"
That had been the last time we talked about it—me swearing I was over him after that night I told him about Gerard's rant about me. But what Frank also didn't know was that Gerard and I talked about it. He apologized. I forgave him.
"Exactly," I said. "And I'm still seeing Tyler."
"Nothing kills a crush faster than a boy toy and your crush telling you you're a burden," Frank muttered, turning his attention back to the road.
I let out a breath. He believed me. And honestly, it was better that way.
We arrived at the restaurant—a half-diner, half-bistro hybrid with checkered floors and way too many framed photos of celebrities no one recognized. The band was already there, squished into a corner booth, arguing over who got stuck in the middle.
Gerard, coming over from the bathroom, scooted in beside me without hesitation. "Hope you don't mind," he said casually.
"Wow," I deadpanned. "No regard for personal space."
"None whatsoever," he said, stealing the menu right out of my hands.
"Hey! I was looking through that."
"And now, I'm looking at it. Sucks to be slow."
"Give it back."
Gerard just looked at me, smug, and held the menu out of reach, "Make me," he said. That made my heart do a weird little flutter that I tried to ignore.
Before I could think of something clever to throw back, a teenage girl—pretty in a casual, effortless kind of way, with streaks of raccoon highlights in her dark hair and smudged eyeliner that looked more deliberate than messy, approached the booth, eyes wide like she'd just walked into a dream.
"Um—excuse me?" she said, a little breathless. "Are you guys... My Chemical Romance?"
The guys looked around, clearly surprised to be recognized at a place like this. It didn't happen often—and usually not somewhere with laminated menus and a spaghetti mural—but when it did, it always caught them off guard. Fame had a funny way of creeping up when they least expected it—and I couldn't help but find it hilarious how these fully grown, internationally known musicians still didn't know how to act when it actually did. They looked like deers caught in headlights.
Ray grinned. "Guilty."
She held out her messenger bag full of pins and band patches, clearly well-loved and slightly fraying. "Can I get your autographs? Please?"
Everyone jumped in to sign, joking and passing the bag around like it was sacred. But the moment Gerard handed it back to her, she blurted out, "Also—I've had the biggest crush on you since Three Cheers. Like, forever."
Gerard, mid-sip of his water, choked. Full sputtering, red-faced, coughing disaster.
Frank immediately pounded him on the back.
"I'm—fine—" Gerard sputtered, coughing between laughs. "Wow. Uh... I'm flattered. Thank you."
And honestly? That girl had guts. Just blurting it out like it was no big deal—no overthinking, no second-guessing. Just, hey, I like you. I envied that. Because somehow, this teenager had more nerve in five seconds than I'd managed in months. She didn't hold it in. She just said it.
I swallowed it down like always.
Gerard, to his credit, recovered quickly and kept talking to the girl for another minute or two—asking her name, what bands she liked, if she played music. She looked like she might explode from happiness. When their conversation ended, she left, nearly skipping out the door.
And that's when the teasing started.
"Well, well, look who's a heartthrob," Mikey said dryly, shaking his head.
Frank nudged Gerard, grinning wickedly. "We might have to start selling Gerard Way posters. Think they'd pay extra for shirtless?"
Ray leaned in, feigning seriousness. "Definitely black and white. Something tasteful. Maybe with dramatic lighting."
Gerard groaned dramatically, dropping his forehead onto the table. "You guys are the worst."
I smirked, joining in. "Forget posters, we're talking calendars now. 'Gerard Way Through the Seasons.'"
Gerard lifted his head just enough to shoot me a look—half-amused, half-exasperated. "I know you're gonna buy one."
My face flushed instantly. I opened my mouth, shut it again, then cleared my throat, trying to appear unaffected. "Maybe. For charity because no one would buy it."
He laughed under his breath, "Hey, you're the one who pitched it."
Gerard watched me like he could see right through the excuse. I focused on my water, swirling the straw like it was the most interesting thing in the world, trying not to grin.
Frank cleared his throat, loud and deliberate. When I glanced up, he was staring at me with that older-brother kind of look that basically said, What are you doing? Then he slapped a menu on the table. "Alright, everyone—order before we get recognized again and someone asks Gerard to sign their forehead."
Everyone laughed and picked up their menus, the teasing finally dissolving into clinking glasses and more normal banter.
But under the table, I was still buzzing. Because the thing about being friends with someone you maybe, sort of, definitely have feelings for... is that every moment walks a tightrope. And I was trying really hard not to fall off.