Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cameras flashed in a rhythm that made Gerard Way’s teeth ache. He stood behind the polished podium in the conference room of Way & Associates, every inch the immaculate CEO in a tailored charcoal suit. The company logo gleamed on the wall behind him, the kind of branding he paid entire teams to perfect. His jaw ached from holding the precise half-smile his PR director had drilled into him an hour earlier.

This entire event was beneath him.

Still, Gerard lifted the microphone and let his voice carry, smooth and cool, the way investors liked it.

“Way & Associates has always believed in innovation, discipline, and community,” he recited. He could practically hear the PR script rattling in his head, word for word. “It is our responsibility as leaders to provide opportunities for the next generation—especially those who may not see their full potential yet.”

A ripple of polite applause followed. Gerard’s smile didn’t twitch.

He hated this part of the job. Not the cameras, not the investors, not even the public speaking—he was good at all of that. What he despised was pretending he cared about programs like this one. The “Troubled Youth Corporate Mentorship Initiative,” as the PR team branded it, was nothing more than publicity stunt. His company didn’t need to take in juvenile delinquents and parade them around the office like rehabilitation pets. But the board had voted, the press had eaten it up, and Gerard wasn’t about to tarnish his entire career over a personal distaste.

So here he was, forced to smile while shaking hands with teenagers in borrowed button-downs.

“Today, we welcome our first group of interns into this program,” Gerard continued, his voice silk over steel. “They will learn discipline, responsibility, and structure—the foundations of a successful career. With the right guidance, any path can be redirected toward greatness.”

His PR director nodded from the sidelines like a stage mother. Gerard wanted a drink. Badly.

The doors at the side of the conference room opened, and in shuffled five teenagers. Three looked terrified, two looked like they wanted to be anywhere else. All of them were dressed in slightly ill-fitting office clothes, probably supplied by the charity. Gerard’s gaze skimmed over them without interest—until it snagged on the boy at the back.

Short, sharp-eyed, with messy dark hair that refused to lie flat. Tattoos scattered down his forearms, half-concealed by rolled-up sleeves. His tie was crooked, his shirt untucked, and he had a cigarette tucked behind his ear like he’d forgotten where he was going today.

The boy didn’t look intimidated. He looked bored.

“Frank Iero,” the program director introduced brightly, giving him a little nudge forward.

Frank lifted his chin, met Gerard’s gaze head-on, and didn’t smile.

Gerard’s mouth went dry for half a beat, then he schooled his features into professional neutrality. Wonderful. Of course they gave me the one with a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan.

“Welcome to Way & Associates,” Gerard said smoothly, extending his hand. “We hope you’ll learn something of value here.”

Frank stared at the hand, then at Gerard. Slowly, deliberately, he shoved his own hands into his pockets.

“Yeah,” Frank muttered. “Guess we’ll see.”

The cameras clicked madly at the awkward tableau.

The PR director nearly choked on her own gasp, but Gerard didn’t flinch. Years of boardroom battles had taught him how to keep his expression cool, even when someone slapped him across the face with insolence in front of half the city’s press. He simply withdrew his hand and smoothed down his tie, masking the irritation that sparked sharp and hot beneath his skin.

“Indeed,” Gerard said evenly, pivoting away from Frank to address the cameras again. “Our interns will be learning the value of discipline, time management, and accountability under the supervision of our senior staff.”

It was a subtle jab, but his eyes flicked back to Frank for half a second, making it clear who that last word was directed at.

Frank smirked. A lazy, smug curve of his mouth that Gerard wanted to wipe away with the nearest stack of HR paperwork.

The rest of the ceremony droned on in rehearsed rhythms: photo ops, a few polite questions from journalists, more speeches about opportunity and second chances. Gerard delivered his lines with the precision of a surgeon, but his mind kept circling back to the kid with his hands shoved in his pockets and that infuriating look in his eyes.

By the time the interns were ushered out, Gerard’s smile had started to feel like it was carved into his skull. He barely waited for the doors to close before muttering, “Christ.”

“Don’t scowl like that,” his PR director, Marlene, chided gently. “The cameras are still rolling outside.”

“I’m not scowling,” Gerard snapped. He was.

Marlene tilted her head, giving him the kind of look only someone who had worked with him for over a decade could dare. “You’ll survive. Think of the headlines. CEO Gives Troubled Teens a Chance at Redemption. It plays well.”

Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t run a redemption center, Marlene. I run a business.”

“And part of running a business is public image. Don’t tell me you don’t like the attention.”

Gerard didn’t dignify that with an answer. He turned on his heel, retreating toward the elevators. If he didn’t get out of that conference room, he was going to suffocate under the smell of cheap cologne and forced optimism.

X X X

The intern orientation was scheduled for the next morning. Gerard told himself he wouldn’t attend—that was what his managers were for. But somehow, when he stepped out of his town car the following day, he found his feet carrying him toward the training floor.

He told himself it was curiosity. That he wanted to see whether these kids would actually show up on time.

The truth was, he wanted to see if Frank Iero would.

And he did. Late.

The other interns had been seated at the long conference table for nearly ten minutes when Frank slouched in, still tugging his jacket on, his hair sticking up like he’d slept through his alarm. A Styrofoam coffee cup dangled from one hand. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even look embarrassed. He just dropped into the chair at the end of the table and blew on his coffee.

Gerard leaned against the glass wall at the back of the room, arms folded, watching.

“Nice of you to join us,” the director said, forcing a smile and clearing her throat to try and smooth over the awkwardness.

“Traffic,” Frank said flatly. He took a sip of coffee. “You should try driving into the city at eight a.m. It’s hell.”

A couple of the interns giggled nervously. The director shot them a warning glance, then glanced at Gerard as if for backup.

Gerard’s voice cut through the room like a scalpel. “Try leaving earlier. Start time is 8:30, Iero.”

Every head at the table snapped toward him. Frank’s eyes narrowed.

“Didn’t realize the boss himself was auditing,” Frank said, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Guess I should’ve worn a tie or something.”

“You should have,” Gerard replied coolly. “This isn’t a playground. You’re here to learn professionalism. I suggest you start now.”

Frank tipped his head, studying Gerard like he was a puzzle he didn’t feel like solving. Then he leaned back in his chair, deliberately casual. “I’ll keep that in mind. Next time.”

Gerard’s jaw flexed. “There won’t be a next time if you can’t manage basic punctuality.”

“Good,” Frank shot back. “Sounds like we’ll both get what we want.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

The director cleared her throat again, rushing into the orientation slides as though sheer speed could erase the tension. Gerard stayed at the back, every line of his body composed, but inside his thoughts were racing.

He should’ve been furious. He was furious. No intern, no employee, no board member had ever spoken to him with that much open disdain. But underneath the anger, a different current ran—sharp, unsettling.

Gerard Way did not get challenged. Not like this.

And he’d be damned if he let some tattooed, cigarette-stinking nineteen-year-old get away with it.

By mid-morning, the interns were parceled out to different departments like unwanted mail. Accounting got two of the quieter kids. Marketing got the one with the nervous laugh. HR claimed the girl with the tidy braid and perfect notes.

And then there was Frank.

The program director hesitated at his name, clearly scrambling for a placement that wouldn’t end in disaster. Before she could stammer out a suggestion, Gerard spoke from the back of the room.

“I’ll take him.”

The director blinked. “Sir? Are you sure? Normally, the interns—”

“I said I’ll take him, Marla,” Gerard repeated, already moving toward the door. His shoes clicked on the polished floor. “Let’s go, Mr. Iero.”

Frank didn’t move immediately. He looked at Gerard, then at the other interns, who were all trying desperately not to stare. With an exaggerated sigh, he pushed himself up from the chair and slouched after Gerard.

“You sure about this?” Frank asked once they were out in the hall, his voice pitched low enough not to carry. “Don’t want me screwing up your business or whatever.”

Gerard didn’t slow his pace. “Trust me, I have no intention of letting you anywhere near anything that matters.”

Frank snorted. “So what’s the point, then?”

“The point,” Gerard said, holding open the door to his office, “is to teach you something you clearly lack. Discipline.”

X X X

Gerard’s office was a cathedral of order: dark wood desk, gleaming shelves, everything in its place. The massive window looked out over the city skyline, as though even the view bent to his authority.

Frank stopped in the doorway, glancing around like he’d stepped into a museum. Then he slouched further into the room, dropping into the chair opposite Gerard’s desk without waiting to be invited.

Gerard arched a brow. “Make yourself comfortable, by all means.”

“Already did,” Frank said, leaning back with his hands laced behind his head.

Gerard ignored him and opened a folder on his desk. Inside was a neat stack of printed reports—busywork, but intentionally so. “You’ll be starting with these. Alphabetize them by client name, then input the data into the spreadsheet template. Should take you the afternoon.”

Frank eyed the folder, then looked back at Gerard. “You want me to play secretary?”

“I want you to do what you’re told,” Gerard said smoothly. “Consider it practice.”

Frank let out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Yeah, see, here’s the thing. I don’t take orders well.”

Gerard steepled his fingers, watching him. “That much is obvious. But while you’re under my roof, you’ll learn. Or you’ll leave.”

Frank leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His voice dropped, low and challenging. “And what if I don’t feel like learning?”

Gerard’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you’ll be out the door before you can finish that coffee you’re so attached to.”

For a long moment, they locked eyes across the desk. Frank’s smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth again, insolent and defiant. Gerard felt a flicker of something—irritation, yes, but also the sharp edge of anticipation.

Finally, Frank reached out and dragged the folder across the desk. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll play along. For now.”

X X X

The sound of papers shuffling filled the office as Frank half-heartedly sorted through the reports. Gerard turned to his computer, pretending to focus on emails, though his attention kept slipping back to the boy across from him.

Frank didn’t sit still. He tapped his foot against the leg of the chair. He hummed under his breath. At one point he flipped a report upside down and muttered, “Oops,” before fixing it.

Gerard’s teeth ground together. Is he doing this on purpose?

After twenty minutes, Gerard finally snapped, “Do you always work this slowly, or is this a special performance for me?”

Frank looked up, eyes glinting. “Special performance. Thought you deserved it.”

Gerard exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” Frank said. “Watching you get all tight in the jaw every time I breathe wrong? Yeah, kinda hilarious.”

Gerard pushed back his chair, standing. He moved around the desk until he was standing over Frank’s chair, looking down at him. “Let me make one thing very clear,” Gerard said, his voice quiet but edged with steel. “I don’t tolerate disrespect. Not from employees. Not from interns. Not from anyone.”

Frank tilted his head back, unflinching. “Then maybe you should’ve thought twice before volunteering to babysit me.”

The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken challenge. Gerard could feel his pulse in his throat, hot and steady. For the first time in years, someone wasn’t falling in line.

And he wasn’t sure whether he hated it—or craved it.

Chapter Text

A month into the internship program and the office had learned to treat Frank Iero like background noise—loud, inconvenient, but constant. He was everywhere at once: balancing a chair on two legs in the copy room, sneaking energy drinks into the conference space, humming punk riffs under his breath while scanning files, and somehow managing to be both in everyone’s way and nowhere useful.

Most of the staff had developed coping mechanisms. Some wore headphones. Others simply rolled their eyes and let him burn off his restless energy. But Gerard Way was not most people.

Gerard liked order. He liked the symmetry of neatly stacked folders, the quiet hum of productivity, the discipline of a schedule that ran exactly as planned. Silence, to him, was not absence—it was control. And Frank Iero was the antithesis of silence: motion, sound, and unfiltered curiosity crammed into a nineteen-year-old body with too much energy and too little direction.

That morning, Gerard had just finished reviewing a client proposal when Frank appeared in the doorway holding a folder upside down. His hair—an inky, chaotic mess—stuck out from under a beanie that technically violated office dress code, and his grin was wide enough to make Gerard’s stomach tighten in a way he didn’t like examining.

“You ever sleep, boss?” Frank asked. “Or do you just, like, charge yourself in a docking station overnight?”

Gerard looked up slowly, careful to keep his tone even. “Good morning, Mr. Iero. I see you’re still perfecting your comedy routine instead of your filing system.”

Frank flipped the folder right-side-up and wiggled it in the air. “What can I say? It’s part of my charm.”

“You have none,” Gerard replied flatly, already rising to retrieve the folder before Frank inevitably dropped it. “And the marketing department would appreciate if their quarterly reports remained free of pizza grease.”

Frank blinked, then glanced at his fingers. “What? Oh—yeah, that’s probably from breakfast this morning.” He wiped his hands on his jeans, which were torn at the knee despite HR’s clear policy against “distressed attire.” “Noted.”

As the door shut behind him, Gerard exhaled, sinking back into his chair. The quiet felt almost too heavy now, pressing in around him. For someone who thrived on control, he couldn’t shake the sense that Frank Iero’s chaos had started to alter something invisible in the air—something he didn’t want to name.

The office eventually found its rhythm again. Phones chirped, keyboards clicked, the low buzz of conversation filled the glass-walled space. Usually, that background noise reassured Gerard—a symphony of efficiency, proof that the machine was running as intended. Today, though, it scraped at his nerves like grit under glass.

Frank had been at his desk all of fifteen minutes before he interrupted.

“Hey, boss,” he called, leaning halfway through Gerard’s open doorway, one hand braced against the frame. “Quick question. If you weren’t doing… this”—he gestured vaguely at the desk, the tidy stacks of papers, the glowing laptop—“what would you be doing instead?”

Gerard didn’t look up. “Working somewhere else.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

He expected Frank to lose interest, to wander off and bother someone else. Instead, the boy dropped into the visitor’s chair, spinning it in a slow half-circle before planting his elbows on his knees. “You ever wanted to do something stupid?” he asked. “Like drop everything, get in your car, and just—drive until the road ends?”

Gerard’s pen stopped mid-sentence. He looked up. “You’re supposed to be organizing the supply inventory.”

“I was. It’s boring.”

“Then you’re doing it correctly.”

Gerard went back to his notes. Frank stayed put, tapping his fingers against the chair’s armrest in an uneven rhythm that grated against Gerard’s patience. The kid had no sense of stillness, no understanding of how much oxygen he took from a room just by existing in it.

Finally, Gerard said, “Is there something else, Mr. Iero?”

Frank shrugged. “Just trying to get to know the guy who runs this place. You’re kind of a mystery, you know that?”

“I prefer it that way.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

By lunch, the small talk had turned into a full interrogation.

Gerard wasn’t one to discuss his personal life. It wasn’t secrecy so much as principle—he ran a corporation with public contracts, and any slip of the tongue could turn into a headline. The media already painted him as some aloof genius whose fortune was “mysteriously self-made,” a man whose empire had appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t mind that. Distance was armor.

But Frank was relentless.

“Seriously though,” he said around a mouthful of vending-machine chips, leaning back in his chair like the picture of insolence, “how old are you, really? Forty? Forty-five?”

Gerard closed his laptop halfway, the soft click louder than it should have been. “Thirty-nine,” he said. “And this conversation is over.”

Frank grinned. “So no midlife crisis yet. Good to know.”

He rocked back farther until the chair’s back legs squeaked against the floor, and a few nearby employees glanced over, half amused, half pitying. Gerard forced himself to breathe evenly through his nose.

He’d thought, when the program began, that patience would be a matter of discipline. A test of leadership, even. He hadn’t accounted for the sheer persistence of youth—or the way one person’s restlessness could erode his focus, grain by grain, until all that was left was irritation.

By the time the clock ticked past one, Gerard decided he needed a moment away from the noise. He left his office under the pretense of refilling his coffee, though his mug was still half full.

The break room was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Janine from HR stood by the window, stirring sugar into her tea. Her tablet was propped against the counter, a spreadsheet glowing faintly on the screen. She looked up when he entered.

“Rough morning?” she asked, smiling knowingly.

“You could say that,” Gerard replied, pouring himself a cup of coffee even though the pot smelled burnt. He took a sip anyway, grimacing. “I wanted to ask about one of the interns—Frank Iero.”

Janine’s brows lifted. “Ah. That one.”

“That one,” Gerard echoed. “He’s… a challenge. Is there anything in his file I should know that might explain the constant provocation?”

Janine hesitated, then tilted the tablet toward herself and scrolled through a few pages. “You’ve read his intake report, right? Petty theft, possession, resisting arrest—the usual teenage spiral. He was in and out of probation programs until last year.”

Gerard leaned against the counter, expression unreadable. “And yet he’s here.”

“Because this is the alternative,” she said simply. “The court signed off on his placement in the rehabilitation program. It’s this, or jail.”

Gerard’s grip on the coffee cup tightened slightly. “And who, exactly, arranged for that leniency?”

“What you might not know,” Janine continued, “is who his guardian is. Linda Iero—Congresswoman Iero. She adopted him when he was thirteen. He was in the foster system before that. Rough few years.”

Gerard blinked, processing. “The congresswoman?”

Janine nodded. “The same. She’s been championing these youth rehabilitation partnerships for years. She pushed hard to get him into this program instead of serving time. Said he needed structure, not a sentence.”

Gerard’s mouth twisted. “Structure,” he repeated. “He seems to resent every attempt at it.”

Janine smiled faintly, the kind of smile that held both pity and experience. “He resents authority. But he’s not bad underneath. He’s testing people. Seeing who stays.”

Gerard set his cup down carefully, a measured motion to keep his irritation from spilling over. “I’m not here to be tested.”

“No,” Janine said softly. “But you are the first supervisor he’s had who doesn’t yell or quit after a week. That might count for something.”

Gerard didn’t reply. He only nodded once—tight, professional—and walked out with his coffee still steaming in his hand. He’d come looking for insight; what he’d gotten instead felt more like a warning wrapped in sympathy.

X X X 

The afternoon dragged. Frank was quieter when Gerard returned, but not by much. Every now and then, Gerard caught snippets of conversation drifting across the room—Frank chatting up a junior analyst, cracking jokes, spinning a paperclip between his fingers. It wasn’t malicious; it was just endless.

By three, Gerard’s head was pounding. By four, Frank was back in his doorway with another question, this one about the company’s origin story.

“So, how’d you even start this whole business thing?” he asked, leaning against the frame. “Did you just wake up one morning and decide, hey, I’m gonna own half the city?”

Gerard didn’t look up. “I built it. One decision at a time.”

“That’s not an answer either.”

Gerard sighed, setting his pen down. “Mr. Iero, is there a reason you’re in my office again?”

“Curiosity,” Frank said. “You should try it sometime.”

“Curiosity,” Gerard repeated dryly. “You mistake nosiness for interest.”

“Same difference.”

Gerard stared at him for a long moment. “If you put as much effort into your work as you do into aggravating me, you might actually learn something here.”

Frank smirked. “Maybe I’m learning how to get under your skin.”

“Congratulations,” Gerard said, voice low. “You’ve succeeded.”

That seemed to amuse Frank more than deter him. “Guess I’ll add that to my résumé—Frank Iero: Master at getting under Businessman Way’s skin.”

Gerard leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. He wanted to tell the boy that life wasn’t a game—that he couldn’t charm or provoke his way out of every consequence—but something in Frank’s expression stopped him. For all the bravado, there was exhaustion in the edges of his eyes, like someone used to fighting every day just to stay afloat.

It wasn’t an excuse, but it was a reminder: Frank wasn’t here by choice.

Gerard’s voice softened by a fraction. “Get back to work, Mr. Iero.”

Frank saluted lazily. “Aye aye, Captain.”

And then he was gone again, leaving only the faint scent of cheap cologne and static energy in his wake.

When the last of the interns clocked out at five, Gerard stayed behind, staring at the spreadsheet he hadn’t touched in an hour. His reflection hovered faintly in the glass wall, framed by the fading light of the city skyline. He looked composed—every inch the man the press described: controlled, successful, detached. But his head was still full of Frank Iero’s chaos.

He took a slow sip of the now-cold coffee.

Maybe Janine was right. Maybe the kid was testing him.

If so, he wasn’t sure who was winning.

Chapter Text

The morning started badly and got worse.

Gerard swore under his breath as he stood on the curb outside his apartment building, staring at the front tire of his car like it had personally betrayed him. It wasn’t just low—it was flat. Completely, irrevocably flat. The rubber had peeled from the rim in an ugly slump, and a nail gleamed from the tread, mocking him with its perfect little silver head. Water from the gutter splashed over his shoes as a bus roared past, leaving behind the sour tang of exhaust and damp asphalt. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache pulse behind his eyes. This was not how he wanted to start his morning.

He checked his watch: 7:52 a.m. He was due in the office by eight-thirty. Normally, that would leave just enough time for coffee and the quiet drive across the bridge—a small buffer of solitude before the chaos of emails, contracts, and people who needed things from him. Instead, he was standing in the cold, his breath fogging in the air, arguing with a tow company that had apparently never heard of punctuality.

“Yes, I’m aware it’s rush hour,” he hissed into the phone, pacing along the sidewalk as traffic hissed by. “That’s why I called ahead. You said twenty minutes. It’s been forty.”

The voice on the other end was flat, distracted, the kind that sounded like it had already stopped listening. Something about high call volume. Limited trucks. Typical excuses. Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “I don’t care if every car in Newark decided to implode,” he said, forcing his tone low and deliberate. “I pay for priority service. Priority means now.”

There was another apology—half-hearted, useless. He ended the call before he said something regrettable. The air around him smelled like wet pavement and burnt coffee from the café on the corner. His tie felt too tight. He loosened it with one hand, the motion sharp with irritation, and flagged down the first taxi that didn’t look like it might fall apart at a red light. By the time he slid into the back seat, he was already rehearsing his apologies to clients, running through the day’s schedule in his head like a battlefield map.

He gave the driver his office address and leaned back, pulling out his phone. The city blurred by in streaks of grey and gold, rain threatening again over the skyline. He was halfway through sending an email when the phone buzzed—tow company, finally.

“Mr. Way?” The same bored voice. “Just confirming, you said a black sedan on—”

“Yes,” Gerard snapped. “And make sure your driver doesn’t scratch the paint. The car is less than a year old.”

He hung up before they could respond. His reflection in the taxi window looked like someone who hadn’t slept properly in weeks—jaw tight, collar slightly askew, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. He hated mornings that started off balance. They ruined everything that came after, like a single sour note spoiling the rest of a song.

X X X

By the time he stepped out of the elevator onto the twenty-fourth floor, his shoulders were tight and his patience worn thin. The polished glass doors of the Way & Associates office gleamed at him like a challenge. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, the air smelled of toner and coffee, and the sound of chatter filtered through the open floor plan. It was barely eight-fifteen and already too loud.

“Morning, boss!”

Gerard froze mid-step. Frank was already there.

Not just there—early. Somehow. He was perched on the corner of a coworker’s desk, swinging one leg, a cheap paper coffee cup in hand. His grin was too wide for the hour. His presence too loud for Gerard’s current mood.

“Why are you here before eight?” Gerard asked, setting his briefcase down with more force than necessary.

Frank raised his cup in salute. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get a head start.”

“On what?” Gerard said flatly. “Annoying everyone?”

“Call it team morale,” Frank shot back, as if that explained everything.

He hopped off the desk and fell into step beside Gerard as he crossed the room. “So I was thinking about that project we were talking about last week—the marketing thing? You said something about rebranding, right? Or was that the other guy? Anyway, I’ve got ideas. Like, big ones. What if we—”

“Frank.”

“—added something with color? Or maybe like a street campaign—”

“Frank.”

“Yeah?” The grin didn’t waver.

Gerard stopped at his office door, turned, and looked him square in the eye. His patience had thinned to a filament. “Not today.”

For once, Frank hesitated. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Got it.”

Gerard opened his door, stepped inside, and slammed it shut in his face. The sound echoed through the open floor, a deep, final thud that made the nearest employees look up. Through the frosted glass, Gerard could see Frank’s outline lingering on the other side, head tilted, shoulders relaxed like he was debating whether to laugh. Then came a faint chuckle and the sound of retreating footsteps.

Gerard pressed his palms flat on his desk, inhaling slowly until his hands stopped shaking. He told himself it wasn’t personal. That Frank Iero was simply the physical embodiment of chaos—and chaos had no place in his day. But even as he thought it, the faint echo of Frank’s laughter scraped against his composure.

He hadn’t even finished his first email when the phone lit up with a client ID he couldn’t ignore. He straightened automatically, forcing calm into his posture before hitting accept. “Good morning, Mr. Hamilton. How are—”

“Cutting to it,” the voice interrupted, brisk and cold. “We’re withdrawing our contract.”

Gerard’s pulse stuttered. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s not personal, Gerard. The board just decided to go in another direction. Smaller firm, lower fees.”

He turned toward the window, his reflection framed against the distant skyline. “After three years of partnership, you’re leaving for a discount?”

A pause. “Business is business.”

He could feel the muscle in his jaw twitch. “Business,” he repeated, voice like ground glass. “Right. Of course.”

The call ended with a soft click that felt far louder than it should have. He sat there for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear, staring out at the clouds gathering over the river. The forecast called for rain. Fitting.

One client gone wasn’t a disaster, but it was a crack in the foundation—and cracks spread. He could already picture the board’s reaction, the questions, the whispers. Is Way losing his edge? He’d built this company from the ground up, and one misstep could make the wolves circle.

The phone buzzed again before he could set it down. Mikey. He hesitated, thumb hovering over ignore, but guilt was a hard habit to kill. He answered.

“Mikey.”

“Gee.” His brother’s voice was thin, wired, the kind of voice that came with bad news. “Hey, I need—look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much this time?”

A pause. “Ten grand. Just to square things up. I’m good after that, I swear.”

“Mikey, I gave you five last month.”

“Yeah, I know, but things got messy—”

“No,” Gerard said sharply, cutting him off. “You said you were done with this. The gambling, the coke, whatever it is now.”

“I’m clean,” Mikey said quickly. Too quickly. “I just—please, Gee. You’ve got it. You won’t even miss it.”

“That’s not the point,” Gerard said quietly. His throat ached with the effort of staying calm.

On the other end, silence. Then, smaller, brittle: “Then what is the point? You’d rather see me hit bottom?”

“I’d rather see you help yourself.”

Mikey laughed—a sound that didn’t belong to humor. “Right. Because you’ve got it all figured out, huh? Must be nice up there in your glass tower.”

“Mikey—”

“I think you stopped caring a long time ago.”

The line went dead.

Gerard sat there, hand still clutching the phone. The office seemed too bright, the air too thin. He pressed the device face-down on the desk and stared at it, unblinking, until his reflection warped in the black screen.

X X X

The rest of the day blurred into damage control. He went through motions: meetings, calls, endless strings of emails. He spoke without hearing himself, smiled without meaning it. By midafternoon, the rain had started in earnest, drumming softly against the wide windows. He hadn’t eaten. His coffee was cold. The room felt smaller with every passing hour.

Every minor sound grated—the hum of the air conditioner, the clack of keys from the next office, even the low murmur of laughter from the bullpen. He’d built his empire on control, and now everything around him was refusing to obey.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Hesitant. But unmistakable.

He didn’t look up. “What?” he said, too sharply.

There was a pause. The door creaked open anyway.

Frank stood in the doorway, damp from the rain, hair flattened beneath his beanie. His jacket hung open, darkened from water, and he held a folder in one hand. He looked tired, though the familiar smirk tried to mask it. It faltered when he saw Gerard’s expression.

“I, uh… wasn’t sure if you were still alive in here,” Frank said. “You’ve been locked up for hours.”

“Get out,” Gerard said quietly.

Frank blinked. “You serious?”

“Very.”

Frank hesitated, then stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind him with a click. “Look, I know you’re pissed—”

Gerard stood, chair scraping sharply against the floor. “You think this is a game, Iero? You think I have time for your interruptions, your antics?”

Frank opened his mouth, but Gerard didn’t stop. His words came faster, harsher, years of pressure finding their target. “You walk around here like you own the place. You ignore protocol. You waste everyone’s time with your jokes, your noise, your complete disregard for authority.” He took a step forward, voice low, dangerous. “This is not a playground. This is a company that employs two hundred people—people who rely on me to keep it running while you treat it like a field trip.”

Frank’s shoulders squared. “I was just—”

“No,” Gerard snapped. “You were just doing whatever you wanted. And I’m done with it.”

The silence that followed was thick, vibrating with the sound of rain and breathing. Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the river.

Frank stared at him for a long moment. Then, with forced calm: “You done?”

Gerard’s chest rose and fell once. “For today. Yes.”

Frank’s expression shifted—anger, maybe disappointment—but it hardened into something unreadable. “Okay. Message received.”

He turned and left, the door closing softly behind him. The quiet that followed was worse than the noise.

Gerard sank into his chair, pressing his palms to his face. The adrenaline bled out, leaving nothing but exhaustion. He stayed there for a long time, listening to the steady rhythm of rain against glass. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he’d regret the way he’d handled it. Frank didn’t deserve to catch the shrapnel of a bad day.

But in this moment, regret was a luxury he couldn’t afford. The only thing keeping him upright was the anger that hadn’t quite burned out.

Chapter Text

The alarm went off at six-thirty, slicing through the soft murmur of rain.

Frank groaned and rolled onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling as if he could will the noise away. For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move. The steady rhythm of rain against the window blurred the edges of the world, turning everything slow and far away — like time itself had sunk beneath the surface. It was the kind of morning that seemed designed for staying in bed, wrapped up in silence and half-dreams. Rain always did that to him — made him lazier, heavier, as if each drop carried a little extra gravity.

When he finally pushed himself upright, the room seemed unnaturally still. The bedroom was as pristine as ever — white walls, framed photos, polished furniture that reflected faint slants of gray light. It was a beautiful room, technically, but it didn’t feel lived in. His mother’s house never did. It was like a museum that pretended to be a home, curated down to the last detail by someone who preferred order over warmth. Every surface gleamed, every shadow smelled faintly of lemon polish and restraint.

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the strands stick up uselessly, then tugged on the hoodie he’d abandoned over a chair the night before. The fabric was cold, wrinkled, and somehow comforting in its imperfection. The hallway stretched ahead of him — silent, spotless, echoing faintly with the rain. Usually by now, his mother would be gone — off to the capital, a meeting, a flight, anywhere that didn’t involve sharing space with him. The kitchen was more often a prop than a place: chrome, marble, expensive appliances that hummed faintly but never worked too hard.

But this morning, she was there.

Linda stood by the stove, perfectly composed, a vision of control even at dawn. Her hair was sleek and unmoving, her tailored steel-grey suit sharper than the weather outside. A cup of coffee sat beside her tablet, half-drunk, its surface trembling slightly from the vibration of incoming messages. The glow of the screen painted her face in pale light.

Frank froze in the doorway, caught between surprise and hesitation.

“You’re home,” he said finally, the words more accusation than greeting.

She looked up, offering a smile that was professional before it was maternal. “Briefly. My flight got pushed to ten. You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered, crossing to the fridge.

“Still adjusting to the job?”

He shrugged, opening the door mostly to avoid her gaze. “Something like that.”

He poured orange juice into a glass, spilling a little as he did. The silence that followed wasn’t tense, just strangely formal — as if they were strangers waiting for a meeting to start. Linda had always been better behind microphones than across tables.

“How’s Mr. Way?” she asked, her tone bright but rehearsed. “You’re still at Way & Associates, yes?”

Frank snorted, unable to hide the bitterness. “Unfortunately.”

Her eyebrow lifted. “That bad?”

“He’s—” Frank hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t sound childish. “He’s a total control freak. Everything’s about image and order and — God, he talks like he’s allergic to fun. I don’t think he’s smiled once since I started there.”

Linda sighed, setting her tablet down with a quiet click. “Frank, you can’t keep treating this like detention. Way & Associates is one of the most powerful firms in New York. Gerard Way isn’t just another executive — he’s a builder. He’s made something lasting.”

“Yeah, well, good for him.”

“Good for you,” she corrected softly. “You’re lucky to be there.”

He looked down into his glass, jaw tightening. “Doesn’t feel like luck.”

Linda crossed the kitchen, the soft rhythm of her heels steady as a metronome. Up close, she smelled faintly of perfume and rain, like discipline wrapped in something delicate. “Sweetheart,” she said gently, “I know you think everyone’s out to punish you. But this is your chance to prove otherwise. Remember what the judge said?”

The sentence dropped like a pebble into deep water.

“One more mistake, and it’s not another program. It’s prison.”

Frank’s hand tightened on the glass. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “I remember.”

“Then behave,” she said simply. “Finish the internship. Keep your head down. Make it through the year.”

He forced a weak grin. “Sure. Keep my head down. Got it.”

She reached out, smoothing a hand through his hair — an old gesture that felt foreign now, almost intrusive. “You’re a good boy, Frankie. You just need to let people see it.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Tell that to my boss.”

“Maybe I will.” She smiled, faint and distracted, already picking up her tablet again. “Now eat something before you go.”

He didn’t.

By the time he stepped outside, the drizzle had turned steady, blurring the city into something washed-out and endless. His breath fogged in the cold. The sidewalks gleamed slick beneath streetlights, and cars hissed past in muted splashes. The smell of rain and exhaust mixed in the air, sharp and nostalgic. He shoved his hands into his pockets and started toward the subway, the echo of her words trailing him down the block.

“Remember what the judge said.”

The rain hadn’t stopped all morning. It crawled down the glass walls of Way & Associates, streaking the skyline into a watercolor of silver and shadow. Inside, everything smelled of espresso and ink, of paper pushed too far.

Gerard sat behind his desk, voice low and measured as he spoke into the phone. “No, I understand the client’s hesitation,” he said, the calm tone doing little to disguise his irritation. “But let’s not make assumptions until the board reviews our counterproposal.”

He ended the call and leaned back, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. His reflection stared back at him in the rain-blurred glass — sharp suit, tired eyes, the faint slump of someone holding too many things together by sheer will. Mornings after bad days were always the worst. And yesterday had been one of the bad ones — the argument with Frank, the flat tire, his brother’s call that ended in silence, the slammed door that still echoed in his skull. He told himself it was just frustration. Or guilt. Something manageable. Something professional.

The elevator chimed. Gerard didn’t look up at first; he was already expecting the interruption. When the knock came, he braced for it.

The door cracked open. Frank stood there.

8:23 AM. Early.

He looked different — quieter somehow. His hoodie was damp, his hair mussed, his usual grin missing. He dropped his bag near his desk and started working without a word. For a while, Gerard pretended not to notice him, buried himself in numbers and reports. But Frank kept trying — small talk about clients, about scheduling, anything to fill the space. Eventually, the silence between them settled into something uneasy.

By noon, Gerard had reread the same email twice. When the knock came again, he already knew it would be him.

“Come in,” he said, voice restrained.

Frank stepped in, shutting the door. The sound was soft, final. The rain outside seemed louder now, the air between them thicker.

“Got a minute?”

Gerard gestured toward the chair. “Make it quick.”

Frank didn’t sit. “About yesterday.”

“Yesterday is over,” Gerard said sharply. “Move on.”

“No,” Frank replied, his voice rough. “It’s not over for me.”

Gerard looked up. There it was again — that mix of defiance and guilt, the spark that made him so impossible to ignore. “You came here to argue again?”

“I came here to—”

“You think I enjoy disciplining you?” Gerard snapped. “You think I have time to chase after your mistakes? To go behind you and fix everything you start?”

Frank’s lips twisted into something halfway between anger and amusement. “I think you enjoy it.”

The air went still.

Gerard stood, chair scraping faintly against the floor. “Watch your tone.”

Frank gave a short, bitter laugh. “There it is. The power trip. You can’t stand when someone talks back, can you? Everyone here walks on eggshells because they’re terrified of you — but I’m not. I’ve met plenty of people like you, sir, and you don’t scare me.”

“You’re out of line.”

“Yeah? So are you.”

They were close now — too close. The city outside vanished behind the storm, the world shrinking down to the sound of rain and breath.

Gerard’s jaw flexed. “You have no idea what kind of line you’re playing with.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The tension snapped into something electric, alive, vibrating under the surface of every word. Frank didn’t flinch. Gerard took a step forward, then another. The air hummed.

When Gerard reached out, it wasn’t calculated. It was instinct.

He caught Frank by the front of his hoodie and shoved him back against the desk. The sound was soft — a thud swallowed by the rain. Frank didn’t resist. His breath hitched.

Gerard leaned in, his voice a low growl against Frank’s ear.

“Don’t move.”

That was all it took for the moment to break open.

The rain pressed harder against the windows, thunder rolling far off over the river. Gerard exhaled through his teeth, fighting every instinct screaming to close the distance, to shut him up, to stop whatever this was before it consumed them both.

And then, without another word, Gerard went past him to close the blinds.

The sound of the cord sliding through his fingers was the only thing in the room until everything went still. 

Gerard came back over to Frank who was still leaned up against the desk. Gerard looked at the younger boy, letting hunger take over. He started to kiss Frank. Something deep inside Gerard was screaming at him to stop, but the want overpowered him. This was for all the nonsense and chaos that Frank brought to the office. This was for all the stupid jokes and half-assed work that he did because he thought it was a fucking game.

After a few minutes, the kiss broke apart. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Frank.” Gerard said. Frank’s cheeks were already flushed from the heated kiss.

“Then show me,” Frank whispered breathlessly. 

That’s all it took for Gerard to start kissing him again. Gerard grabbed Frank by the hair, pulling him more into the kiss roughly. Frank grunted, his knuckles going white as he gripped the desk underneath him. Gerard could feel Frank getting hard. The pain from his scalp made the younger boy moan into the kiss. 

Gerard made quick work with Frank’s hoodie that he had on. He could feel Frank’s hands fumble with his tie and the buttons on his shirt. Frank helped Gerard slip off the shirt, throwing it somewhere on the floor. They broke from the kiss again, trying to catch their breaths. Before Gerard could say anything, Frank dropped to his knees. He started to fumble with Gerard’s button and zipper, but then Gerard stepped away.

“What—oh.” Frank blushed as he watched Gerard lock the door, then walk back and finished unbuttoning and zipping his pants. He dropped them and his boxers to the floor, kicking them somewhere else as well.

Gerard looked down at Frank on his knees, his mouth slightly agape. Gerard started to stroke himself lazily, getting into full hardness. Frank was still partially clothed from the waist down, but Gerard could see the tent in his pants.

“Open,” Gerard demanded. The boy opened his mouth allowing Gerard to slide his dick between his lips. “You want me to fucking show you what happens to disobedient brats, then I fucking will.”

Frank was making tiny noises as Gerard thrusted in and out of his mouth. This wasn’t Frank’s first blowjob—he had given and received many in his lifetime. But this was the first blowjob that was rough. This was also his first blowjob in a public setting with his boss, of all people. 

Frank hallowed his cheeks and used his tongue around Gerard’s cock. The man above him was staring at him, muttering explicits. 

“God, Frankie, taking my cock so well, aren’t you?” Gerard asked, he stilled for a second, and then shoved back into Frank’s throat. There was a moment of panic as Gerard had a hand on the back of Frank’s head, keeping him still.

Frank tried to relax his gag reflex, but he could feel the panic and the bile coming up, but as quickly as it started, Gerard pulled him off. Frank coughed, his eyes watering from the pressure. Gerard grabbed him by the hair, standing him up and turning him around so he was bent over the desk. 

Frank felt Gerard’s hands on his back and his hips, gently running up and down and then towards his spine that sent a shiver running down. He was just admiring Frank’s backside. Frank then felt hands on his pants, sliding them down to his ankles. He felt hands on his cheeks, spreading them apart. Frank turned red with embarrassment.

He had never been this turned on before. He’s never had someone actually just look at him the way Gerard was. Usually his hook ups were a quick in and out kind of thing. Frank wasn’t sure if the thought of all of this being forbidden was what was actually turning him on, or if it was from all the built up tension between them. 

“If we were anywhere else, I’d make you beg for me. I’d have you drooling, moaning my name. But since we are here, you will keep quiet or I will find something to stuff down your throat until I’m finished with you. Do you understand me?” Gerard asked into Frank’s ear, their bodies close together. 

Frank must have not answered quickly enough because the next thing he knew there was a hand in his hair, pulling his head into an uncomfortable position. 

“Boy, I am talking to you.”

“Y-yes, sir, I understand,” was all Frank said before his head was pushed against the desk. He heard Gerard take a deep breath and then drop down. Frank could feel his breath tickling his skin, leaving goosebumps in its trail. 

Both hands were now on Frank’s cheeks, spreading him open as Gerard looked at Frank’s hole again. Before Frank could process anything, he felt something warm and wet licking him open. Oh fuck, he thought as he realized it was Gerard’s tongue lapping around at his hole. It took almost everything out of Frank not to make a noise and cum right on the spot.

Despite Frank having some kind of experience with sex, this was one of those things that he had never done with any guy. He has gone down on a few girls in the past, but this was different. Frank bit his lip to stifle the moans as he felt Gerard’s tongue circling his hole, lapping at it as he went from his hole to his prenarium to his balls, then back up again. 

This was maddening. Frank couldn’t help the small, quiet “ah” that came out when he felt a finger slide into him. Quickly, there was a second finger along the first, curling and spreading him open. There was a slight sharp burst of pleasure as Gerard touched his prostate. 

“Sir—” Frank tried but then there was Gerard’s tongue back. Frank felt like he was going mad with want. Frank wasn’t much for foreplay—he never had time for it—but this had him at the edge already. He felt Gerard stand up, his fingers still thrusting inside of him.

“Tsk, tsk. I said quiet, did I not?” Gerard leaned against him, his breath hot against Frank’s skin. Frank tried to muffle the noises that were coming out of him, but the pleasure had him twisted into knots. He wasn’t going to last if Gerard continued to finger-fuck him. 

“You’re going to lay there and take it, Frankie,” Gerard said, rubbing himself against Frank’s bare ass. “This is for all the fucking nonsense you spew. For the times that I had to go behind you and fix all your little fuck ups.” 

Before Frank could even speak, he felt Gerard line up and push into him. Frank’s not a virgin—he’s had sex with a few people. He’s mostly topped with a few chances of bottoming here and there. But Gerard was thick. It hurt. 

“Ah. Sir—Ger—Mr. Way, ah, can you—” Frank tried to speak, but every thrust sent a white-hot heat up his spine. Fuck. This hurts, he thought. Frank felt a hand in his hair, pushing him down so his cheek was on the desk. 

“Slow down, please,” Frank managed to get out finally, his words muffled by the desk. He let out a sigh of relief as Gerard slowed his hard thrusts down. 

“Such a fucking tight ass,” Gerard seethed above the whining boy. “Gotta take what I give you, princess.”

Princess. Frank’s brain had fizzled out at the word. Fuck. Frank felt Gerard speed back up again. He felt Gerard’s free hand reach his dick to start stroking him in time with the thrusts. Gerard kept hitting his spot, making him see stars behind his eyes. 

Just like before, Gerard got him straight to the edge. Frank wasn’t going to last much longer with this brutal pace. Frank felt Gerard spill into him, pulling out, and flipping Frank forward. Before Frank could react, he was already being pushed down to his knees.

“Cum for me,” Gerard demanded. “Fucking jerk off.”

Frank didn’t need to be told twice, he quickly got to work as he pumped his dick fast and tight. He spilled over his knuckles not even a few minutes later. He was careful enough not to leave a mark on the floor.

The rain hadn’t stopped. It whispered against the high windows, steady and relentless, turning the city below into a watercolor of silver streaks and soft white haze. The office was cocooned in that sound — insulated, still, breathing in the low hum of the heating system and the faint buzz of the lights overhead.

Frank was still knelt on the floor, motionless in the half-dark. The world around him seemed unsteady, like the room itself was holding its breath. His pulse beat somewhere in his throat; his palms were cold where they pressed against the carpet. He didn’t know what to say, or if there was anything left to say. Words felt fragile — like glass, like the wrong one might shatter everything.

Across the room, Gerard stood by the window. The glass was fogged slightly from the difference in temperature, and his reflection shimmered with every pulse of lightning outside. He had already straightened his clothes, every movement methodical, precise, restrained — the practiced choreography of someone piecing his control back together, thread by deliberate thread. But Frank could see it — the tension in his shoulders, the faint tremor when his fingers brushed the window frame. Stillness was an effort, not peace.

Frank swallowed, his throat dry. “Sir?”

Gerard didn’t turn. His voice, when it came, was calm — too calm, the kind of tone he used in meetings, in negotiations, when he wanted nothing personal to slip through. “You should go home.”

The words were simple, but they carried the dull finality of a closing door.

Frank’s brow furrowed. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not even going to look at me?”

The reflection in the window flickered, distorted by the rain. “There’s nothing to look at, Frank. What happened… shouldn’t have happened. And it won’t happen again.”

The quiet after that sentence felt heavier than the words themselves. Frank’s breath hitched, something sharp and small breaking inside him. “You make it sound like a mistake.”

“It was.”

The sound of that — the flat, unhesitating certainty — hollowed the room. Frank let out a laugh that wasn’t a laugh, more like the sound of disbelief cracking down the middle. “Wow. You really know how to make a person feel special.”

“Don’t,” Gerard said quietly, still not facing him. “Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

Frank stood slowly, his legs unsteady. The motion felt like surfacing from something deep, and the air burned cold in his lungs. “Worse for who?” he asked, his voice breaking around the edges. “You?”

“This isn’t about—”

“Of course it’s about you!” Frank snapped. The anger finally bled through, raw and desperate. “Everything always is. The company, the image, the control — you’ve built your whole life so nothing can touch you.”

Gerard turned then, just slightly. His eyes were dark, tired, human in a way that made Frank’s chest twist. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither was this,” Frank said quietly.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It vibrated. It was the kind of silence that holds too much — all the things they’d said and the heavier things they hadn’t.

Gerard was the first to move. He reached for his tie, folding it with careful precision, each motion a retreat, a way of writing distance into the air. “I crossed a line,” he said finally, voice low. “That’s on me.”

Frank waited. There was a beat — then another.

“I’m sorry,” Gerard said.

The words hung there, brittle. Frank almost smiled, but it faltered halfway. “No, you’re not,” he said softly. “You’re just trying to make it neat. Clean. Something you can file away and pretend didn’t happen.”

He took a step closer, enough for the lamplight to catch the tremor in his hands. “You can’t control everything, Gerard. You can’t plan your way out of this.”

For a moment, Gerard looked at him — really looked, as if seeing him for the first time since the world had shifted. There was something raw in his expression, something dangerously close to regret. Then it was gone, smoothed over by habit. “Go home, Frank.”

Frank stared at him a heartbeat longer, but the conversation had already ended. The room smelled faintly of rain and cologne, of air that had been too still for too long. He wanted to ask if any of it had meant something, if he had imagined the pulse beneath all that control — but the words stayed lodged somewhere deep, unspoken.

In the end, he just nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

He crossed the office, every step echoing a little too loud in the silence. His hand touched the doorknob, cool metal against cold skin. Then Gerard’s voice came again — quiet, almost an afterthought.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Frank froze, turning slightly, enough to see Gerard’s outline framed by the window — the storm behind him, the city blurred into streaks of light.

He shook his head once. Not in anger anymore, just disbelief.

The door opened. Light from the hallway spilled in, pale and indifferent. Then it shut again, the sound soft, final.

Gerard stayed where he was, staring out at the city as the rain traced slow paths down the glass. His reflection shimmered and broke apart with each drop. Somewhere far below, a siren wailed and faded into distance.

He picked up his tie again, but his hands trembled once before he forced them still. The office was silent — not the peaceful kind, but the kind that accuses.

Outside, Frank stepped into the rain without an umbrella. The cold hit him instantly, grounding him, shocking him awake. The streets were slick with reflections — red tail lights bleeding into gold puddles, the city shimmering like a watercolor running off the page.

He didn’t look back.

He just walked, head down, his clothes heavy with rain until he couldn’t tell what on his face was water and what wasn’t. At the corner, under the flicker of a streetlight, he stopped and pressed a hand to his chest — not because of pain exactly, but to hold something together before it slipped completely away.

He wasn’t angry anymore. Not really.

Just hollow.

Chapter Text

The morning light looked gray. Clouds pressed low over the skyline, heavy and uneven. It was as if the sun had decided to hide away. Frank could feel the city moving slower than usual—traffic lights blinking through fog like distant stars, and umbrellas bumping against each other on slick sidewalks, their owners huddled inside their coats, trying to shield themselves from the damp chill. The weather seemed to match his mood, heavy and oppressive, ever since that night in the office when everything had shifted.

Frank walked to work with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, headphones in place, listening to his playlist shuffle through songs that were nothing more than noise to him. His thoughts were much louder than the music, a noise of doubt and regret that drowned out the melodies meant to lift his spirits. The damp smell of asphalt clung to him, a reminder of the wet streets he trudged through, and as he approached the glass doors of Way & Associates, his reflection stared back—an unsettling ghost version of himself. Tired and pale, the usual spark he carried in his eyes was dulled, overshadowed by a sense of defeat.

Inside, the lobby buzzed quietly, a low hum of activity that felt almost normal. The front desk receptionist glanced up from her screen and gave him a distracted smile, fingers flying across the keyboard. Frank nodded back, the motion feeling mechanical, as if he were merely going through the motions. He scanned his badge and stepped into the elevator, focusing on the pattern of lights above the door rather than the tightness settling in his chest.

When the elevator doors slid open onto the twenty-fourth floor, the hum of conversation and the whir of printers hit him like static electricity. People glanced up, their eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments, just long enough to acknowledge his presence before quickly looking away again. He didn’t blame them; what could they possibly say that would ease the tension hanging in the air?

He made it to his desk, dropped his bag with a dull thud, and sat down. The swivel chair squeaked in protest, a familiar sound that normally offered some comfort. The desk was just as he’d left it: a messy stack of reports, a coffee ring staining one corner, a pen cap chewed halfway through. It was all normal—safe. But the air wasn’t. It was thick, almost suffocating, wrapping around him like a vice—reminding him of Gerard’s hand around his neck, a memory he couldn’t shake.

He could feel it—the weight of Gerard’s office down the hall, all glass and shadow, looming over him. He told himself not to look. Instead, he opened his laptop, stared at the login screen, and felt the hum of nerves beneath his skin. Just do your job, Iero. Keep your head down. Do the hours. Finish the program. Then you’re free.

Easy words, but harder to live by.

He typed his password wrong twice, the frustration mounting with each failed attempt. By midmorning, his brain had checked out completely. The cursor blinked at him like it knew something he didn’t, taunting him with its rhythmic pulsation. Every few minutes, someone passed his desk—snippets of chatter about budgets, marketing strategies, and impending deadlines floated around him, but he caught none of it, lost in his own tumultuous thoughts.

Finally, unable to sit still any longer, he stood and headed toward the HR office, two doors down from the break room. Janine’s nameplate gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light, steady and ordinary amidst the chaos swirling in his mind. He knocked once, then stepped inside.

“Frank!” Janine looked up from her tablet, her smile warm and welcoming. “Hey, how are you?”

He hesitated, the words feeling heavy in his throat. “Hey. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Her smile softened, an understanding glimmer in her eyes. “Good. Did you need something?”

He nodded once, his gaze fixed on the soft carpet beneath his feet. “Actually, um… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

He shifted his weight, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket as if searching for the right words. “Is it possible to switch departments? Like… marketing, maybe? Or operations?”

Janine’s brows shot up, surprise evident on her face. “That’s a sudden change.”

“I just thought I’d get more out of another team,” he said, his voice more tentative than he intended.

She studied him, head tilting slightly as if trying to gauge his sincerity. “Is something wrong, Frank?”

He forced a shrug, the action feeling hollow. “No. I just want to explore a different part of the company.”

“Frank, you’ve only been here six weeks.”

“Yeah. And maybe I’d actually learn something somewhere else.”

Her tone softened but retained its edge. “You know I’ll have to talk to Mr. Way, right?”

He tried not to flinch at the name. “Yeah. I figured.”

Janine leaned back in her chair, watching him intently, a long beat of silence hanging between them. “You’re one of the better interns we’ve had in this program, you know. I don’t want to see you transfer because of something that could be fixed.”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, the words spilling out. “I just—need a change of scenery.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she could see through the façade he put up. But she only nodded, resigned. “All right. I’ll put in the request.”

He nodded too, relief flooding through him that the conversation was over. “Thanks.”

But as he stepped back into the hallway, the air felt thicker, almost suffocating. He bypassed his desk altogether, opting for the stairwell instead, needing to move—to breathe something other than the recycled air and tension that filled the office.

He didn’t even make it a full hour before the inevitable email pinged into his inbox, a stark reminder of the reality he was trying to escape.

From: [email protected]  

Subject: HR Request  

Come to my office before you leave today.

His stomach dropped, a lead weight pulling him down. 

By five, most of the floor had cleared out, the rain picking up again outside—steady and soft against the windows, creating a rhythm that matched his racing heart. He sat at his desk, pretending to review a file, but the words blurred together, his mind too preoccupied with dread to focus.

When he finally walked toward Gerard’s office, his heart felt too loud, each beat echoing in the silence. The frosted glass walls caught the glow of the city outside—muted yellows, streaks of red tail lights from the street below—an ironic contrast to the turmoil roiling within him.

He paused outside the door, knocked once, the sound sharp in the stillness. 

“Come in,” came Gerard’s voice from inside, steady and commanding.

He pushed the door open, stepping into the space that had become a battleground for his emotions. Gerard stood by the window, his jacket off, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean forearms. A half-empty mug sat on his desk, steam curling up like a ghost. His posture was composed, but there was something taut about the line of his shoulders that suggested a different kind of tension.

“Janine told me you want to switch departments,” he said without looking up, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.

“Yeah,” Frank replied, closing the door behind him but keeping his distance near the threshold. “I just thought it’d be better for everyone.”

Gerard finally turned to meet his gaze, the intensity of his eyes sending a shiver down Frank’s spine. “Why?”

“Why not?” Frank shot back defensively.

“That’s not an answer.”

Frank’s pulse kicked harder, adrenaline surging through him. “I don’t have to give you one.”

Gerard’s gaze didn’t waver, steel-like in its intensity. “You do, actually. You’re here under a court agreement. Every move you make goes through me, HR, or the judge.”

Frank swallowed hard, the weight of Gerard’s words pressing down on him. “Then maybe I’ll talk to the judge. Ask to be reassigned to another company.”

Something in Gerard’s expression shifted—barely, but enough to catch Frank’s attention. The calm facade cracked for a moment, revealing a glimpse of something colder beneath.

“That’s not how this works,” Gerard replied, his voice low and measured.

“Why not?” Frank challenged. “It’s not even like you want me here anyway.”

The silence that followed was electric, charged with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. Rain tapped against the windows, a background noise to their confrontation, and the city noise below blurred into white sound. Frank didn’t want to say what lingered on the tip of his tongue, but it was the truth. Gerard treated him like an annoying child, a chaotic presence in an otherwise orderly world. Sure, he had tried to get under people’s skin, but that was just his way of coping. In reality, he had started to enjoy some aspects of the work, finding a sense of purpose in the challenges. Until that night in the office, when everything had changed.

Gerard crossed the space between them, stopping just close enough that Frank could see the faint exhaustion around his eyes. “Why are you so eager to leave, Mr. Iero?

Frank met his stare, the air between them crackling with tension. “Do you really want me to answer that?” he asked, knowing Gerard was trying to forget what had happened between them.

Gerard’s jaw tightened, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features. For a moment, neither of them moved, the atmosphere thick with unspoken truths.

“You’re not transferring,” Gerard declared finally, his voice firm. “Not now.”

Frank felt the words hit him like a door slamming shut. “Then I’ll tell the judge it isn’t working.”

Gerard’s tone dropped, quiet but sharp, slicing through the tension. “And what do you think the judge will hear when I tell them you’re walking out on a court-ordered rehabilitation program? That you’re refusing to cooperate again?”

Frank’s stomach twisted, dread pooling in his gut. “You can’t—”

“I can,” Gerard interjected simply, his expression unwavering. “And I will if you force my hand.”

The words landed like ice water, freezing Frank in place. 

For a moment, the anger drained out of him, replaced by something smaller, rawer. He hated that his throat felt tight, hated that Gerard looked as composed as ever, as if none of this touched him.

“You know what?” Frank said finally, his voice low and strained. “I don’t care what you tell the judge. I just want out of this office.”

Gerard’s eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through their depths. “Close the door, Frank.”

Frank froze, fingers still gripping the handle, the rain sounding louder suddenly, filling the space where words should’ve gone. He didn’t know what would happen next—didn’t want to think about it. All he knew was that the air between them had shifted, charged with a new intensity.

He closed the door.

XXX

The next morning, the rain had finally stopped, but the air still smelled of iron and exhaust, remnants of the storm hanging in the atmosphere. The streets outside Way & Associates gleamed under the pale morning light, and Frank watched his reflection ripple on the wet pavement as he walked toward the building. His stomach felt tight, his palms clammy inside his hoodie pocket. He had hoped for silence today—for paperwork, for monotony—but the city never gave him that.

As the elevator doors slid open on the twenty-fourth floor, he was swallowed whole by the office’s familiar hum. Phones rang, printers clicked, and the world continued on, indifferent to his internal struggle. He didn’t look toward Gerard’s glass-walled office; he didn’t need to. He could feel it like static against his skin, every nerve reminding him of the words—Close the door, Frank—and the way the air had felt afterward, stripped clean of pretense. He had spent all of yesterday trying to decide whether he was angry, humiliated, or both. Frank kind of wished they had never crossed that line. He wished he could go back in time and let the judge put him in jail, or prison, or wherever the hell he needed to go.

Janine found him before he made it to his desk, stepping into his path with a practiced HR smile. “Frank, hey,” she said, her voice bright. “Got a minute?”

He swallowed, feeling the weight of her gaze. “Sure.”

Her office was bright and faintly floral, a mug of chamomile steaming beside her keyboard, the soothing scent a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. She motioned for him to sit. The kindness in her eyes made his chest ache in a way he didn’t expect.

“I spoke with Mr. Way about your request,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “The transfer’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?” he asked, dread coiling in his gut.

“Because of your program. Any reassignment has to go through the board and the court liaison. Until then, you’re to continue your current placement.”

Frank sat back in the chair, jaw flexing as frustration bubbled beneath the surface. “So I’m stuck.”

“Temporarily,” Janine assured him, her voice softening. “But the board wants to see how you handle this project first. It’ll look good for you if you finish it out.”

He stared past her at the rain-slick skyline, feeling like a pawn in someone else’s game. It’ll look good for you—like this whole internship was just another performance, another test. “Fine,” he said at last, resignation settling in. “I’ll finish it.”

“Good,” Janine said, relief softening her shoulders. “Mr. Way has a meeting at ten. He asked that you join. You’re still listed as the intern attached to the client file.”

“Of course he did,” Frank muttered under his breath, bitterness creeping into his tone.

Janine’s brow furrowed, concern etched across her features. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, forcing a smile. “I’ll be there.”

By ten, he found himself in the conference room, sitting opposite Gerard for the first time in days. The table between them felt like an insurmountable barrier—his notebook on one side, Gerard’s tablet on the other. The rest of the staff filtered in, oblivious to the tension humming between them, a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface.

Gerard looked immaculate as always: a crisp shirt, dark tie, the faint gleam of cufflinks that probably cost more than Frank’s entire wardrobe. His expression was unreadable, professional to the point of cruelty, a mask that concealed whatever turmoil lay beneath.

The meeting began. Gerard’s voice carried across the room, smooth and deliberate as he outlined projections and budgets, his confidence commanding attention. Frank focused on his notepad, diligently writing nonsense numbers just to keep his hands busy, a distraction from the chaos simmering in his mind. Every few minutes, Gerard’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp and quick, like a predator testing whether his prey was still paying attention.

When the meeting ended, the others gathered their folders and left in pairs, the door whispering shut behind them. Only then did Gerard speak directly to him before he could escape. 

“Stay a moment, Frank. I want to review those notes, please.”

Frank froze, his pulse spiking at the command. He didn’t move until the last person was gone, the silence stretching between them, thick and charged.

Gerard closed the file in front of him, his movements precise. “Janine told you the board’s decision.”

“Yeah,” Frank replied flatly, the words lacking any enthusiasm. “Lucky me.”

“You’re here to finish the project. After that, we’ll revisit your placement,” Gerard stated, his tone businesslike, almost clinical.

Frank leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms defensively. “So I’m supposed to pretend everything’s normal?”

Gerard’s gaze didn’t waver, his expression unyielding. “You’re supposed to do your job.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Frank shot back, frustration boiling over.

A muscle in Gerard’s jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “What happened between us is irrelevant to your work here.”

Frank’s laugh was short and bitter, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Right. Because you’re so good at pretending.”

For a heartbeat, Gerard’s composure slipped; a flash of something raw flickered in his eyes before he smoothed it away, masking whatever vulnerability had threatened to surface. “Watch your tone.”

Frank’s pulse pounded in his ears, anger and confusion swirling within him. “You don’t get to tell me how to talk.”

“I do,” Gerard said quietly, but with an undercurrent of authority. “As long as you’re under my supervision, I do.”

The room felt smaller, the air thick with tension. The rain outside had started again, a steady whisper against the glass. Frank wanted to stand, to storm out, to do anything but sit there while the anger tangled with something else he couldn’t name.

Instead, he said, “Fine. I’ll finish the damn project. Then I’m out, but this—this weird controlling shit has got to stop. I—you—.” Frank struggled to find the words to express the turmoil within him.

Trying again in a much quieter tone, he pressed on. “We had sex. You fucked me, then treated me like I was nothing. Was I just another transaction for you? Is this how you treat everyone you come in contact with? Or people you have sex with? Because, to be quite honest, it’s no wonder you’re so fucking alone and angry all the damn time.”

Gerard didn’t respond immediately. He gathered his papers, straightened the stack with a precise motion, and left the room without another glance, his silence more damning than any response could have been.

The rest of the day bled by in dull shades of gray. Frank worked in silence, the tap of his keyboard syncing with the rain that continued to fall outside. Around six, when most of the office had emptied, Janine stopped by his desk to drop off another file.

He nodded, but he didn’t look at her. His eyes were fixed on the faint reflection in Gerard’s darkened office window—the blur of a man still sitting at his desk, long after everyone else had gone. 

Chapter Text

Sunlight stretched across the skyline in long, golden lines — too bright, almost defiant after the endless rain. The city had shaken off its gray skin overnight; puddles shone like mirrors on the sidewalks below Gerard’s apartment as he buttoned his cuffs and stared out the window.

It should have been a good morning. Clear sky. Fresh air. The kind of light that made the glass towers glitter and the Hudson look like molten metal. But the brightness only made the ache in his chest worse.

He hadn’t slept the past couple of weeks. He’d spent half the night pacing, the other half lying awake replaying every second of what happened — the heat, the breath, the loss of control, and the silence that followed between him and Frank.

He’d told himself a thousand versions of the same lie: You’re fine. He’s fine. It was a mistake, nothing more.

But he wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been since Frank stepped into his orbit and started pulling the order out of everything with his obnoxious behavior and snide remarks, his attitude towards authority. Frank unraveled everything Gerard had built up for himself. Gerard had never been this careless. He was always articulate, concise, and put together. But that boy was constantly eating him away at the edge. 

He tightened his tie, straightened his jacket, and told his reflection in the mirror. “You’ll apologize. You’ll fix it.”

His reflection didn’t believe him.

The lobby of Way & Associates was alive with typical Monday energy — the tap of heels, the rush of coffee cups, the hum of conversation that filled the marble space. Gerard nodded at greetings he didn’t really hear, his mind already a few floors ahead.

When the elevator doors opened to the twenty-fourth floor, sunlight poured through the glass, sharp and clean. The city glimmered beyond the windows. He felt the weight in his chest double.

Frank was already there.

Gerard noticed him instantly, even in a sea of gray suits and chatter. Frank was dressed cleaner than usual — black shirt, sleeves rolled just above his wrists where his tattoos poked out— but quieter somehow. He kept his head down, earbuds dangling loose, eyes fixed on the monitor in front of him. Not defiant. Not smirking. Just… distant.

And that, Gerard thought, hurt worse than the chaos ever had.

He tried to work. Emails, reports, numbers. Everything blurred together. The sound of Frank’s laugh and constant chatter used to fill the office; now the silence where it should’ve been pressed at the edges of his focus like static.

By noon, he’d stopped pretending.

“Janine,” he said, stopping by HR on his way to grab coffee. “When you have a moment, could you send Iero to my office this afternoon?”

Janine blinked, surprised. “Of course, Mr. Way. Everything all right?”

“Just need to discuss a project update.”

It was a lie, but the kind he could still live with.

The hours crawled. He rehearsed what to say in his head until every version sounded wrong. I’m sorry. Too thin. It was unprofessional. Too cold. You didn’t deserve that. Too honest.

By the time five o’clock rolled around, the office had begun to empty. Sunlight mellowed into amber, washing the floor in long shadows. He stood by the window, trying to steady the pace of his breathing.

The knock came — soft, hesitant.

“Come in,” he said.

Frank stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a muted click.

He didn’t sit.

“You wanted to see me?” His tone was neutral, practiced — the voice of someone who’d decided not to let anything through.

Gerard turned slowly, taking him in. The sunlight caught on the strands of his hair, made the brown look almost gold. There were faint shadows under his eyes — the kind you only got from thinking too much, sleeping too little.

“Yes,” Gerard said. “Thank you for coming.”

Frank crossed his arms. “Do I have a choice?”

Gerard exhaled. “You do.”

That earned a flicker of surprise.

He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Please. Sit.”

Frank hesitated, then dropped into the seat, legs sprawled, jaw set. “If this is about the project, I already finished my section.”

“It’s not about the project,” Gerard said quietly.

Frank’s posture stiffened. “Then what?”

For a moment, Gerard couldn’t find the words. He looked at his own hands instead — the same hands that had held Frank against his desk, that had crossed every boundary he’d sworn never to blur.

“I owe you an apology,” he said finally.

Frank’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened around the armrest. “For what?”

Gerard met his eyes. “For what happened last week. For crossing a line I shouldn’t have. I took advantage of a position I had no right to. You’re here to learn, and I—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I failed you.”

Frank’s voice came low. “You didn’t force me.”

“I didn’t stop it either,” Gerard said. “That’s on me.”

The air felt heavy, sunlight filtering through the blinds in long, gold stripes across the floor.

For a long time, Frank didn’t speak. The quiet between them wasn’t hostile — it was fragile, tentative, like the hush after a storm when you’re not sure if it’s really over.

Finally, Frank said, “Why now?”

Gerard frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You could’ve just ignored it. Pretended it didn’t happen. That’s what people like you do, right? Move on, forget the name by next week.”

Something in Gerard’s chest twisted. “Is that what you think of me?”

Frank looked up. His eyes were bright, but his voice stayed even. “I don’t know what to think. You’re my boss. You’re—” He broke off, shaking his head. “You make it impossible to tell what’s real.”

Gerard’s throat tightened. “Then let me be clear.” He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. “It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t something I took lightly. And it’s not something I can forget —I don’t usually fuck my interns, Frank.”

Frank’s breath hitched.

“I need to know,” Gerard said quietly, “if this is something you wanted. Or if I made you feel like you didn’t have a choice.”

The words hung between them, raw and dangerous.

Frank’s gaze dropped to the floor. “You didn’t make me do anything.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He looked up again, frustration bleeding through his voice. “You want an answer? I don’t know what I want, all right? I don’t even know what last week was. I’m trying to figure it out.”

Gerard closed his eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t. But it’s a start.”

Frank laughed softly, bitter but tired. “Look, I know what you think of me. I am just an annoying, bratty fuck. I can sense when a fuck is meaningless, and that’s exactly what this was for you. Only reason you’re apologizing now is because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not going to lie and say that no, I did not find you annoying—I found you infuriating. But you, Frank, are something else. You aren’t just some meaningless fuck that I had. I do feel guilty because I don’t want you to think you’re forced to have sex with me.” Gerard stepped away from his desk, getting closer to Frank. 

“You didn’t force me,” Frank said. “I wanted to see if I could actually get to you. If I was just some noise or if you actually felt it, too.” He met Gerard’s eyes again, bold for a heartbeat. “You did.”

“Yes,” Gerard said. There was no point lying anymore. 

It should have felt like relief. It didn’t. It felt like standing at the edge of something and knowing you can’t jump. 

“So where do we go from here?” Frank asked, breaking the silence between them. “I…I still want you. I want you…to touch me like that again.”

Gerard took in a shaky deep breath. “This has to be a secret, Frank. Not because I’m ashamed of who I am, or anything like that. But I have built this business up by keeping my personal life a secret. I don’t need the investors or media running my name through the dirt.”

“I understand,” Frank said, biting his lip as the distance between them closed even more. There were still people outside the office working. They had to be quiet. Frank knew if this got out not only would Gerard’s world be shaken up, but so would his. Frank would be dragged down under by the media as some sort of skank who got around and his criminal background would be released publicly. 

“We take it one day at a time. While we’re here, you will remain my rambunctious intern, then maybe, I will then take you home, bend your sweet ass over the bed and fuck you. How does that sound?” Gerard whispered into Frank’s ear, nibbling on it slightly.

Frank all but moaned. He could feel himself start to get hard in his slacks. Of course Gerard would say some shit like that. He wanted to be good for him. Frank really wanted to suck his cock right now, have him fuck his throat, but he knew with the office still open it was a much bigger risk.

“There are more things you should know about me, Frank,” Gerard started. “I am a Dominate. I will have you look through a contract to see what are your limits. We can do that together, but it must never be left here at work. Maybe a private lunch meeting or something, or even I hold onto it for you. But I need you to read through it and make a decision for yourself if that’s truly what you want.”

Frank nodded. “Yes. Yes, I really want that. Please, Gerard.”

“Good boy. I will get it over to you tomorrow. Be in my office by 2 P.M. Okay?”

“Got it.”

Chapter Text

Morning light cut across the pavement in hard, white stripes when Frank stepped out of the subway. It was too bright, too clean, the kind of morning that made the world look freshly scrubbed — and he hated it for that.

He hadn’t slept much. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Gerard’s voice again — Good boy. The words had sunk into him, warm and dangerous, until they were all he could think about.

He told himself not to be an idiot.

It was just words. A role. Something secret and thrilling that would stay behind closed doors.

Still, the thought of seeing him again — of walking into that office and catching Gerard’s eyes on him — had been enough to make his chest feel like it was full of live wires.

He pushed through the revolving doors of Way & Associates, nodding to the security guard, pretending his pulse wasn’t hammering.

Elevator up. Twenty-fourth floor.

He straightened his jacket as the doors opened, bracing himself for whatever that look would be — that charged, dangerous something that always lived between them.

But Gerard’s office door was closed.

Not just closed — sealed off. Blinds drawn, light slicing through in thin, deliberate slats. The entire glass wall was shuttered.

Frank slowed. That was new. Gerard never had the blinds shut. He liked transparency, control, everything visible. Meetings were scheduled, predictable, polite. This — this looked like secrecy.

He frowned, slinging his bag onto his desk, then glanced toward the receptionist’s station. Jessica was there, flipping through her planner and nursing a half-empty latte. Frank caught her eye and nodded toward Gerard’s office.

“What’s that about?” he mouthed.

Jessica raised her brows, gave a helpless little shrug. “I’m not sure. This woman just stormed in into his office,” she said quietly.

Frank blinked. “That’s weird?” he sighed, a little too loudly.

Jessica’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. They’ve been in there for, like, twenty minutes.”

And right then, as if on cue, the office door opened.

She stepped out.

She was tall with long, black hair that fell sleek against her shoulders. Her figure was the kind that drew eyes without trying: slim waist, curves that moved like water under the sharp cut of a charcoal dress. Red lipstick, precise and dangerous. The kind of woman who didn’t just walk through a room; she claimed it.

For a second, Frank forgot to breathe.

She wasn’t what he expected — not that he’d ever imagined Gerard with anyone, really. But seeing her, real and perfect and there, twisted something in his stomach.

She didn’t look at him as she passed. Didn’t look at anyone. Her perfume lingered in the air — clean, expensive, something like smoke and honey.

Gerard appeared in the doorway behind her, suit immaculate as always, but there was something off about him. His jaw was tight, his shoulders set like he’d just been bracing for impact.

“Jessica,” he said evenly, voice low. “Clear my schedule until eleven.”

Jessica nodded. “Of course, Mr. Way.”

He turned, closed the door again, blinds still shut.

Frank stood there, pretending to scroll through his phone while his pulse ticked unevenly under his skin.

Who was that?

He didn’t know if Gerard had ever been married. Didn’t know anything, really — not where he lived, not what kind of music he liked, not who he was when the suit came off. And that realization — that there was a whole life Gerard had lived before him — carved a small, sharp ache right beneath his ribs.

He sat down at his desk, stared at the screen, and tried not to think about how easily someone else had walked into Gerard’s office and closed the door behind her.

By the time the door opened again, Frank wasn’t sure whether he wanted to see Gerard or not.

By the time the clock hit two, Frank had replayed that morning a hundred times — the sound of the door shutting. He’d tried to focus, but every spreadsheet, every line of code, blurred into static.

All he could think about was that woman’s perfume, the way Gerard had looked right after — brittle, almost shaken — and the fact that Frank didn’t know him at all.

When the clock ticked over, he stood, wiped his palms on his slacks, and forced himself to walk down the hall.

Gerard’s door was open now. Sunlight poured through the glass again like nothing had happened, but the air inside still felt thick. Gerard was at his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened — but his posture was wound tight, every line of him pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

“Close the door,” Gerard said quietly without looking up.

Frank did. The click felt louder than it should’ve.

“Sit.”

Frank sat. His heart was still a little too loud in his chest. “Here for our two o’clock meeting.”

Gerard nodded, sliding a plain manila folder across the desk — the contract, probably. But Frank barely looked at it.

“I, uh…” He hesitated, then blurted it out before he could stop himself. “Who..who was that?”

That made Gerard still completely. His pen froze mid-twist between his fingers. When he looked up, his expression wasn’t anger. It was something heavier. Sadness, maybe. Weariness.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaled through his nose.

“You saw Lindsey this morning, then.”

Frank nodded slowly.

Gerard rubbed at his temple like he’d been carrying a headache all day. “We were high school sweethearts. Married for about ten years. Back when I still thought success was something you could plan.”

Frank tilted his head. “You were married? What happened?”

Gerard’s mouth tightened into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Life. Ambition. Distance. Take your pick. I worked a lot.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, then continued quietly, “When I started building Way & Associates, everything became about the next pitch, the next client, the next investor. She wanted stability. I wanted control. I also was not honest with myself about being gay at that time. Neither was she. You can imagine how that ended.”

Frank stayed quiet. It was strange hearing him talk like this — without polish, without armor. Just honest.

“It all happened before I got successful,” Gerard went on. “But I always told her I’d take care of her. That was the one promise I didn’t break.”

Frank frowned a little. “Take care of her how?”

Gerard looked up then, sharp, warning. “This stays between us, Frank. I mean that.”

Frank nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

Gerard hesitated, then leaned back, the confession dragging itself out of him piece by piece. “Lindsey’s in another relationship now. With a woman named Hayley. They have a little girl named Lila together.”

“Oh,” Frank said softly. “So… you and Lindsey don’t—”

“No,” Gerard cut in, voice flat. Then, after a pause: “But she and Hayley wanted a child, and… I helped. They couldn’t afford a donor, and it just made sense. So I did what I could. Signed some papers, went to a clinic, jerked off in a cup, and now there’s a little girl out there with my eyes.”

The words hit heavier than Frank expected. He blinked. “Wait. You’re saying—you have a kid?”

Gerard nodded once. “Technically. Biologically. But not publicly.” He ran a hand down his face. “The press doesn’t know, and I intend to keep it that way. If the story ever got out, it wouldn’t be about them, or love, or family — it would be about me. ‘CEO Has a Love Child.’ They’d tear them apart. I won’t let that happen. They live a very quiet life.”

Frank sat back in his chair, watching him — really watching him. For the first time, Gerard didn’t look like the untouchable man in the perfect suit. He looked human. Tired. Burdened.

“I get it,” Frank said quietly. “You’re protecting them.”

Gerard’s eyes flicked up to him, softer now. “I’m protecting everyone.”

They sat in silence for a while — the kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. The city shimmered through the glass, all noise and distance.

Frank looked at the folder still sitting between them. “And this?” he asked, tapping it lightly.

Gerard’s lips curved, faintly. “That’s between us too.”

Frank nodded, even as part of him twisted inside.

Because now, more than ever, he realized just how many secrets Gerard was already keeping — and how easily he was becoming one of them.

Frank hesitated before speaking again. The silence between them was steady, but heavy enough to press on his ribs.

He shouldn’t ask. He knew he shouldn’t. But the image of Lindsey—sharp, beautiful, furious—kept flashing behind his eyes.

“Why did she look so mad this morning?” he asked finally. “Jessica said you two were arguing.”

Gerard’s jaw flexed. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then he let out a low breath, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling like the answer was written there.

“She came here because… my brother came knocking at her door asking for money,” he said. His voice was even, but tight around the edges. “Considering my brother hasn’t been around in years, it was kind of a shock when he came into their home asking if they could spot a few thousand dollars.”

He rubbed at his temple again. “She was mad that he talked to Lila, too.”

Frank blinked. “Why does your brother need money?”

Gerard looked at him sharply. For a second, there was that flash—the same one Frank had seen when he’d first pushed too hard. But then it was gone, replaced by something weary and sad.

“He’s an addict,” Gerard said quietly. “But I can’t blame her for being mad. She and my brother never got along even when we were younger. He also hasn’t been around Lila before so how do you explain to a seven year old that this strange man is family?”

He turned the pen in his hands, absently, the motion precise and restless. “She’s also angry because every time she sees me, she remembers the man who couldn’t love her right but still has a claim on her life in some way. And she’s right to be angry. She thought that if I gave a part of myself, it would bring us closer. That I would be Dad of the Year, but I didn’t want to infringe and confuse the poor child. So all in all, it’s just a lot of drama. I leave them alone in order to protect them.”

Frank watched him—watched the tiny fracture that ran through Gerard’s composure when he said that. It was small, but real.

“I didn’t know,” Frank murmured.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Gerard said. His voice softened. “No one here knows. Not about her, not about Hayley, not about the child. And if you care about keeping this… whatever we’re doing… safe, you’ll keep that to yourself too.”

“I will,” Frank said. He meant it, though the words tasted like a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep forever.

Gerard nodded once, then reached across the desk and tapped the folder again. “Good. Now, let’s focus on what we can control.”

But Frank could see it—the tension in Gerard’s shoulders, the crack that hadn’t been there before.

Lindsey’s anger still lived under his skin, haunting him.

And for the first time since all this began, Frank wondered if he’d stepped into something that had started long before he ever showed up.

XXX

Frank walked home later that evening. 

The city air still clung to him — cool concrete, bus exhaust, the faint bite of rain in the gutters from last night’s storm. His bag hung heavy on his shoulder, the manila folder tucked inside like contraband.

He didn’t bother with the train or subway. The walk helped him think — or at least pretend to. Every block carried the echo of Gerard’s voice, low and even, telling him to read it carefully.

He’d meant it as a directive, but it felt like a challenge.

By the time Frank reached his street, the sky was sliding from gold to gray. The house stood at the end of the block — white columns, immaculate lawn, the kind of place that looked like it had staff, not family. The porch light was on, but the windows were dark.

Of course she wasn’t home.

His mom never was.

Congress was back in session this week, which meant endless committee meetings, photo ops, and late votes. Frank had grown up with that rhythm — headlines instead of hugs, soundbites instead of dinners. Her voice existed mostly through television screens and phone calls that ended with, I’ll be home soon, honey.

He unlocked the door and stepped into silence.

No smell of food, no music, no light except what leaked from the streetlamps outside. The place was spotless, professionally so. He dropped his bag on the couch, kicked off his shoes, and pulled out the folder.

It looked even bigger here, under the soft lamplight. Thick, formal, clinical.

He sat at the kitchen table and opened it.

Pages spilled out — crisp white, full of dense black text. He flipped through, scanning through the headers of each page. Each page was organized into People, Time, Place, Background information about Gerard’s medical history, a place for Frank to fill out his. There were sections where Frank had to fill out if he had ever had STDs, including HIV. If he was a virgin, if he slept with men or women, or both. It asked for Titles. Gerard said he was a Dom. Frank check marked that side. 

It read like something between a legal document and a manifesto. Typical Gerard — even intimacy came formatted in Times New Roman, double-spaced, signed at the bottom.

Some of the questions made Frank’s head spin. May the Dominate be allowed to “overpower” the Submissive? 

May the Dominate leave permanent markings or altercation to the Submissive’s body?

Frank leaned forward, elbows on the table, reading the first page. The tone was distant, professional, but beneath it he could hear Gerard’s voice — calm, careful, controlling. The same voice that had said good boy like it was something sacred.

He skimmed a paragraph, then another, and then another. His pulse picked up. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves or curiosity or both.

At the edge of one page, near the bottom, he noticed a note in blue pen.

This isn’t about ownership. It’s about trust.

Gerard’s handwriting — sharp, deliberate.

Frank stared at the words until they blurred.

He leaned back in the chair, let his head tip against the wall. The house was so quiet he could hear the refrigerator hum, the distant roll of a car outside. For a second, he thought about calling his mom — about hearing her voice, even if she’d sound distracted, even if she’d just ask about work.

But what would he even say?

Hey, Ma. How’s Capitol Hill? By the way, my boss gave me a twenty-page contract about all the fucked up shit he wants to do to me. 

He laughed under his breath, bitter and tired. Then he gathered the papers back into the folder to finish the rest in his room.

The clock ticked in the corner. 7 P.M. The city buzzed outside.

Somewhere out there, Gerard was probably still at his office — the same man who could command a room and still make Frank feel like gravity itself had changed direction.

He didn’t know whether to be afraid of what it meant, or thrilled that it meant anything at all.

XXX

Frank didn’t sleep.

By midnight, his eyes burned from reading. By two, his head ached from the words. By four, he’d stopped counting time altogether.

The folder lay open across his bed, pages spread like a fan. Highlighter marks bled neon across the margins — questions, notes, tiny arrows where something didn’t make sense.

He’d gone over every line twice, just like Gerard had told him to. Some parts were easy — structure, respect, communication. Some kinks he’s already heard about. Those he understood. 

But other parts were harder. Not because they were written in that clinical, lawyerly language, but because they hinted at something deeper, something Frank didn’t have the vocabulary for. 

He understood them, technically. But the way they were used here — the weight Gerard gave them — it was like reading a foreign language he almost knew.

By the time the first light of morning broke through his blinds, he had a pile of signed pages beside him — and a few left blank.

He couldn’t sign what he didn’t understand. Not yet.

The city was already humming when he stepped outside. His bag felt heavier than usual, the folder tucked safely inside. The walk to the office was quieter than normal — no music in his headphones, no coffee in his hand, just the sound of his own heartbeat.

The elevator ride up felt endless. When the doors opened on the twenty-fourth floor, sunlight hit him right in the eyes. Everything looked too bright, too polished. Gerard’s office blinds were open again, glass shining clean.

Frank stood there for a second, clutching the strap of his bag, then forced himself to move.

He knocked once.

“Come in,” Gerard said.

Frank stepped inside. Gerard was behind his desk, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up. He looked calm, collected, the same as always but his eyes flicked immediately to the folder in Frank’s hands.

“You read it,” Gerard said. Not a question.

Frank nodded, setting the folder on the desk. “All night long.”

Something softened in Gerard’s expression — pride, maybe, or approval. “And?”

Frank hesitated. “Most of it’s fine. I signed what I understood. But… there were a few parts I didn’t get. I didn’t want to sign them until we talked about it.”

Gerard leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Good. That’s exactly what I wanted you to do.”

Frank blinked. “You’re not mad?”

“If you’d signed everything without hesitation,” Gerard said, “then I’d be worried.”

Frank opened the folder and turned a few pages, pointing out a section he’d marked. “This one — it talks about…um, yknow, ball torture, but it doesn’t explain what that actually means. I just… don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Gerard studied him for a long moment before replying. “Cock and ball torture is where a Dom would inflict pain there purposely.”

Frank nodded his head slowly, cheeks becoming red. “Oh? And, um. Watersports?”

Gerard smiled faintly. “Let’s go through them together.”

He stood and came around the desk, standing beside Frank, close enough that Frank could smell his cologne — something dark and clean, like cedar and smoke. Gerard flipped to the first unsigned page, and together they leaned over the document, his hand brushing Frank’s wrist as he began to explain.

For the first time since this began, Frank didn’t feel like he was falling.

Gerard went through each page with him, explaining anything that Frank highlighted. Gerard made sure to explain that just because he was into those things did not mean that Frank had to be. Once they were finished, Frank was dismissed to work on his tasks for the day.

By late afternoon, the office had settled into its usual rhythm — the soft click of keyboards, the murmur of phone calls, the occasional whirr of the copier.

Frank was losing a slow battle with exhaustion.

He’d been running on caffeine and nerves since sunrise. His eyes stung, his focus drifted, and the spreadsheet in front of him was starting to swim. He caught himself nodding forward once, jolting awake at the last second.

He rubbed his eyes, blinked hard, and tried again. Numbers. Columns. Focus.

But his body wasn’t listening.

The sound of a door opening broke through the haze.

Gerard stepped out of his office — no jacket, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable. His gaze swept the room once before landing squarely on Frank.

“Frank,” he said.

Frank straightened instinctively, forcing a little more alertness into his voice. “Yeah?”

“I want you to join me for a lunch meeting.”

Frank blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Grab your jacket.”

There wasn’t room to argue — there never was, not when Gerard used that tone. Frank scrambled to his feet, half awake, half curious. Lunch meetings weren’t unusual, but Gerard usually brought at least one senior associate. The fact that he was asking for him specifically made something tighten in his chest.

They left together, the hum of the office fading behind them as the elevator doors slid shut.

Frank glanced sideways at him once, trying to read his mood. Gerard looked perfectly composed — hands in his pockets, gaze fixed straight ahead. Not a trace of the tension from this morning.

Outside, the city buzzed in the early afternoon heat. Gerard’s car was waiting at the curb, and they slipped inside without a word. The drive was short, but quiet — only the sound of traffic and the low rhythm of tires against asphalt.

When they pulled up in front of the restaurant, Frank frowned.

It wasn’t one of the usual business spots. No glass towers, no suits lingering outside with phones in hand. Just a narrow building with dark windows and a discreet gold sign over the door.

Inside, the air was cool and low-lit. The scent of coffee and polished wood filled the space.

Frank looked around — and stopped.

The place was empty. Not a single customer.

Just staff — a hostess waiting at the stand, a server arranging silverware, a man behind the counter polishing glasses. Every one of them looked up when Gerard entered, then nodded quietly, like they’d been expecting him.

“Right this way, Mr. Way,” the hostess said.

Frank followed as they were led to a table near the window — a table already set for two.

Gerard pulled out a chair for him, motioned for him to sit.

Frank hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. “I thought this was a meeting?”

“It is,” Gerard said smoothly, taking his seat across from him. “Just not the kind that requires a notepad.”

Frank blinked. “Then… what kind is it?”

Gerard met his eyes, that small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The kind where you eat something before you fall over from exhaustion.”

Frank felt his ears burn. “You noticed.”

“I notice everything,” Gerard said simply.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The restaurant was too quiet — the kind of quiet that wasn’t empty, just suspended. A low hum of soft jazz filtered from hidden speakers, the sound of distant footsteps in the kitchen.

Frank picked up the menu, more to have something to do with his hands than to read it. The words blurred a little. He still hadn’t processed the fact that the entire restaurant seemed to belong to Gerard for the afternoon.

When the waiter came to take their order, Gerard didn’t even glance at the menu. “The usual,” he said. Then he looked to Frank. “Order whatever you like.”

Frank stammered something — a pasta dish, maybe, he wasn’t even sure — and the waiter disappeared again.

When they were alone once more, Gerard leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You worked through the night.”

“Yeah,” Frank admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to. I just… wanted to understand everything.”

Gerard nodded, slow. “You did well. Better than I expected.”

Frank met his gaze, caught off guard by the warmth there — not the kind that melted you, but the kind that pinned you in place. He didn’t know what this was supposed to be: a test, a reward, or something in between.

For a while, they ate in silence. The clink of cutlery and the low music filled the space, but there was no hurry in either of them. Gerard’s movements were precise, deliberate—the same calm efficiency he carried in the office.

Frank tried not to look at him too much, but every time he glanced up, Gerard was already watching. Not staring—observing. It was unnerving, like being read in real time.

Finally Frank broke the quiet. “So… this isn’t really a meeting, is it?”

Gerard set his fork down. “Not in the usual sense.”

“What is it, then?”

Gerard took a sip of water, eyes still on him. “A check-in.”

Frank frowned. “About the contract?”

“About you,” Gerard said simply. “You’ve been under more pressure than you realize. I wanted a setting that wasn’t fluorescent lights and glass walls.”

Frank blinked. “You rented an entire restaurant for that?”

Gerard’s mouth curved slightly. “Privacy is efficient.”

Frank laughed softly, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Probably,” Gerard said. “But you’re here, aren’t you?”

Frank looked down at his plate, hiding the small smile that tugged at his mouth. He was, and he didn’t know why that felt both dangerous and safe.

Gerard leaned back, studying him again. “Did you understand everything we discussed this morning?”

“Mostly. Some of it still feels…” Frank hesitated, searching for the word. “…heavy.”

“It should,” Gerard replied. “Anything worth doing should have weight.”

That lingered between them for a moment, heavier than the words themselves.

Frank glanced toward the windows. Outside, the city was a blur of motion—people walking, cabs passing, the world moving on completely unaware. Inside, it was all stillness.

“Can I ask something?” Frank said.

Gerard nodded.

“Why do you go to this much trouble? The privacy, the control, the… everything?”

Gerard’s expression softened, but his answer came measured. “Peace. I learned a long time ago that chaos doesn’t ask permission to enter your life. You have to build your own order.”

Frank thought of the blinds drawn that morning, the argument, Lindsey’s eyes when she’d walked out. Maybe that was what Gerard meant—he’d built an empire of calm to keep the rest of his world from breaking in.

“I guess I understand that,” Frank said quietly.

Gerard’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer, then he smiled—small, genuine, and gone almost immediately. “Good. Then we understand each other a little better than we did yesterday.”

Their waiter returned with coffee, breaking the spell. The moment folded neatly back into the rhythm of polite conversation—clients, deadlines, harmless topics that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if overheard.

But under the surface, something had shifted again.

When they left the restaurant, sunlight spilled over the street, bright enough to sting. Gerard held the door for him, the smallest gesture, but one that felt oddly personal.

As they walked back toward the car, Frank realized his exhaustion had faded. In its place was something sharper—awareness, anticipation.

Whatever line they were walking, it was still there, invisible but undeniable. And with every quiet word, every unspoken look, they were inching closer to it.

Chapter Text

Five-thirty came and went.

Frank kept his eyes on his monitor, pretending to be absorbed in the spreadsheet he'd already finished twenty minutes ago. Around him, the office performed its end-of-day ritual: keyboards going silent, desk drawers sliding shut, the rustle of jackets being pulled on. Maria from accounting called out a general goodbye. Someone laughed near the break room.

Frank didn't move.

Gerard's door had opened exactly once in the last hour—just wide enough for him to lean out, catch Frank's eye, and say, "Wait up. There are reports that need fixing." Then he'd disappeared back inside, and Frank had nodded at the empty doorway like an idiot.

That was forty minutes ago.

Now the office was draining out, people flowing toward the elevators in twos and threes. Frank heard snippets of conversation about happy hour, about someone's kid's soccer game, about the weekend. Normal things. Things that belonged to a world where your boss wasn't also the man who'd given you a contract that outlined exactly how he planned to own you.

He hadn't been able to stop thinking about it all day.

The contract. The lunch meeting. The way Gerard had looked at him across the table, all careful control and banked heat. Are you having second thoughts? No. God, no. Frank's hands had been shaking when he'd signed it, but not from doubt.

"Night, Frank!"

He looked up. Janine from HR, pulling her bag onto her shoulder, smiling at him with that slightly pitying expression people got when they saw someone staying late. "Don't work too hard."

"Yeah. You too. I mean—have a good night."

She laughed and headed for the elevators.

The office got quieter. Frank could hear the hum of the overhead lights now, the distant whir of the copy machine powering down. His pulse ticked in his throat. He glanced at Gerard's door. Still closed. Still no sound from inside.

What reports? There hadn't been any reports that needed fixing. Frank had checked everything twice before lunch, paranoid about making mistakes, about giving Gerard any reason to—

Oh.

Heat crawled up the back of his neck.

There were no reports.

The last person left—Tom from IT, headphones already on, nodding to some beat Frank couldn't hear. The elevator dinged. Doors slid shut. And then it was just the empty office, the darkening windows, the city lights starting to glitter outside.

And Gerard's closed door.

Frank stood up. His chair rolled back and hit the desk behind him with a soft thump that sounded too loud in the silence. He smoothed his hands down his thighs, felt the fabric of his work pants, suddenly hyperaware of how they fit. He'd bought them at Target. They were nothing special. Just cheap khakis that he'd grabbed because he'd needed something that looked vaguely professional for this internship.

He walked toward Gerard's office.

Each step felt deliberate. Measured. Like he was approaching something inevitable. His heart kicked against his ribs. The carpet muffled his footsteps, but he could hear his own breathing, shallow and quick. The office felt different empty. Bigger. The cubicles cast long shadows. Outside, the sky was going purple at the edges.

He reached the door.

Raised his hand.

Knocked twice.

"Come in."

Gerard's voice, low and even. Frank's fingers closed around the handle. Cold metal. He turned it, pushed the door open, stepped inside.

Gerard was standing behind his desk, but he wasn't looking at his computer. He was looking at Frank. Had probably been looking at the door, waiting. His jacket was off, draped over his chair. Sleeves rolled up. Tie loosened. He looked like he'd been working, but his eyes were sharp. Focused.

Hungry.

"Close the door."

Frank did. The click of the latch sounded final.

"Lock it."

Frank's hand fumbled for the lock. Found it. Turned it. The deadbolt slid home with a soft snick, and something in the air shifted. The office outside didn't matter anymore. The fluorescent lights, the empty desks, the elevators—all of it fell away. There was just this room. Just Gerard watching him with that intensity that made Frank's skin feel too tight.

"Come here."

Frank moved forward. Three steps. Four. Gerard came around the desk, and suddenly the space between them was collapsing. Frank barely had time to register the movement before Gerard was on him.

The kiss hit like a storm.

Gerard's hand fisted in Frank's hair, yanking his head back, and his mouth crashed against Frank's with a hunger that stole the breath from his lungs. Not gentle. Not careful. Like a man who'd been holding back all day and had finally run out of restraint. His other hand gripped Frank's hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, pulling him close until their bodies were flush.

Frank made a sound—something between a gasp and a moan—and Gerard swallowed it. His tongue swept into Frank's mouth, claiming, demanding. Frank's hands came up instinctively, grabbing at Gerard's shoulders, his shirt, anything to steady himself because his knees had gone weak and his head was spinning.

Gerard kissed like he did everything else: with absolute control and zero mercy.

He walked Frank backward until his spine hit the door. The impact jarred through him, but Gerard didn't let up. If anything, he pressed closer, one thigh sliding between Frank's legs, pinning him there. Frank could feel the hard line of Gerard's body against his, could feel the heat of him through their clothes, could feel—

Oh God.

Gerard pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing Frank's with every word. "Do you have any idea—" His voice was rough, wrecked. "—what you've done to me today?"

Frank couldn't answer. Could barely breathe. Gerard's hand was still in his hair, holding him in place, and his eyes were dark and wild and fixed on Frank's face like he was trying to memorize it.

"I couldn't focus," Gerard continued. His thumb traced Frank's jaw, a gesture that would've been tender if not for the bruising grip still on his hip. "Couldn't think. Every time I looked up, there you were. Sitting at your desk. Working. Being so fucking good."

Frank's chest tightened. Heat pooled low in his belly.

"And those pants." Gerard's hand slid from Frank's hip to his ass, squeezing hard. Frank gasped. "The way your work pants hugged your tight little ass. Christ, Frank. I've been thinking about it all day. Thinking about bending you over my desk. Thinking about—"

He cut himself off with another kiss, this one somehow even more intense. Teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble. Frank was drowning in it, in him, in the smell of Gerard's cologne and the taste of coffee on his tongue and the solid weight of his body pressing Frank into the door.

When Gerard finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.

"I wanted to cancel every meeting," Gerard said. His forehead rested against Frank's, and his voice had dropped to something almost confessional. Vulnerable. "Wanted to lock the door and keep you in here all day. Do you understand? You signed that contract and now I can't stop thinking about all the ways I'm going to take you apart."

Frank shuddered. His fingers tightened on Gerard's shoulders.

"Say something," Gerard murmured. His hand came up to cup Frank's face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. The gentleness was almost jarring after the violence of the kiss. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this." Frank's voice came out hoarse. Wrecked. "I want—God, Gerard. I couldn't focus either. I kept thinking about you. About the contract. About—"

Gerard kissed him again, softer this time but no less possessive. "Good," he breathed against Frank's lips. "Good boy."

The words sent electricity down Frank's spine.

Gerard pulled back, just enough to look at him. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing uneven. For a moment they just stared at each other, the air between them crackling with want.

"On your knees."

The command was quiet. Controlled. But there was an edge to it that made Frank's stomach flip.

He didn't hesitate. His legs were already shaky, and dropping to his knees felt like giving in to gravity. The carpet was rough under him, and he had to tilt his head back to keep eye contact with Gerard. From down here, Gerard looked even taller. More imposing. The dim light from the desk lamp cast shadows across his face, making him look almost predatory.

Frank's heart hammered against his ribs. His mouth went dry.

This wasn't new. He'd done this before—with Gerard, with others before him. But something about tonight felt different. The weight of the contract between them. The empty office outside. The way Gerard was looking at him like he wanted to devour him whole.

Gerard's hand came down to cup Frank's jaw, thumb brushing over his lower lip. "You look so good like this," he said, his voice low and rough. "On your knees for me. Right where you belong."

Frank's breath hitched. He could feel himself getting hard, the pressure building behind his zipper. Gerard's thumb pressed into his mouth, and Frank opened automatically, letting him in. He sucked on it, tongue swirling, and Gerard's eyes darkened.

"That's it," Gerard murmured. He pulled his thumb free with a wet sound that made Frank flush. "Show me what that pretty mouth can do."

Frank's hands came up to Gerard's belt. His fingers were steadier than he expected as he worked the buckle open, pulled the leather free. The zipper came next, loud in the quiet office. He could see the outline of Gerard's cock straining against his boxer briefs, and his own dick throbbed in response.

He pulled Gerard's pants down just enough, then his underwear. Gerard's cock sprang free, already hard and flushed dark at the tip. Frank's mouth watered.

"Don't tease," Gerard said. His hand slid into Frank's hair, gripping tight. Not pulling yet, just holding. A warning. A promise. "Take it."

Frank leaned forward and licked a stripe up the underside, base to tip. Gerard's grip tightened in his hair. Frank did it again, slower this time, then wrapped his lips around the head and sucked.

Gerard made a sound low in his throat—half groan, half growl. "Fuck. More."

Frank took him deeper, relaxing his jaw, breathing through his nose. He knew how to do this. Knew how to take it. He'd learned with other men, had practiced until his gag reflex was almost nonexistent. But he almost forgot how thick Gerard was, and Frank had to work for it, had to concentrate on keeping his throat open as he slid down inch by inch.

"That's it," Gerard breathed. His other hand came to rest on the back of Frank's head, both hands now cradling his skull. "Good boy. Take it all."

Frank's nose pressed against Gerard's pubes. He held there for a moment, feeling Gerard's cock pulse against his tongue, feeling the stretch in his jaw. His eyes watered. He pulled back, gasped for air, then went down again.

Gerard let him set the pace for maybe thirty seconds. Then his grip tightened, and he started to move.

"Stay still," he ordered. "Let me fuck that throat."

Frank's hands dropped to his own thighs, gripping hard. He forced himself to relax, to open up, to let Gerard use him. And Gerard did. He pulled Frank's head forward as he thrust, not gentle, not careful. Deep and demanding. The head of his cock hit the back of Frank's throat again and again, and Frank's eyes streamed, spit dripping down his chin.

It was rough. Overwhelming. Perfect.

Frank's own cock was aching now, trapped in his pants, but he didn't touch it. Didn't move. Just knelt there and took it, took everything Gerard gave him. The sounds were obscene—wet and desperate, Gerard's breathing harsh above him, the occasional curse falling from his lips.

"Look at you," Gerard said, his voice strained. "Taking my cock so well. Like you were made for this. Made for me."

Frank moaned around him, and Gerard's hips stuttered. His grip turned almost painful.

"Fuck. Fuck, Frank—"

He pulled out suddenly, and Frank gasped, sucking in air. His jaw ached. His throat felt raw. He looked up at Gerard through blurry eyes, confused, wanting—

"Up," Gerard commanded, his voice rough. "Get up."

Frank's legs protested as he stood, stiff from kneeling. Gerard caught him by the arm, steadying him, then spun him around. Frank's hip hit the edge of the desk.

"Bend over."

The words sent a jolt straight through Frank's body. His heart kicked into overdrive. This was it. This was—

"Frank." Gerard's hand came to rest on the small of his back, warm and grounding. "Okay?"

"Yes." Frank's voice came out breathless. "So fucking good."

Gerard made a sound that might have been a laugh or a growl. "Good. Hands on the desk."

Frank leaned forward, palms flat against the cool wood. Papers scattered under his hands—reports, memos, things that had seemed important an hour ago and now meant nothing. His ass was in the air, presented, and he felt exposed even through his clothes. Vulnerable. His cock pressed painfully against his zipper.

Gerard's hands went to Frank's belt. The buckle clinked as he worked it open, then the button, then the zipper. He pulled Frank's pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, letting them pool around his ankles. The office air was cool against Frank's bare skin.

"Christ," Gerard breathed. His hands came to rest on Frank's ass, squeezing, spreading. "Look at you."

Frank's face burned. He was completely exposed now, bent over Gerard's desk, and Gerard was just looking at him. Touching him. Taking his time.

"Please," Frank managed. His voice sounded wrecked.

"Please what?" Gerard's thumb traced down, brushing over Frank's hole, and Frank's whole body jerked. "Use your words."

"Please—" Frank's breath hitched. "Please touch me. Please—"

Gerard's hand came down on his ass. Not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to sting. Enough to make Frank gasp. "I am touching you. Be specific."

Frank's fingers curled against the desk. "Please fuck me. Please, I need—"

"Not yet." Gerard's voice was dark with promise, smacking his ass lightly, but enough to pull a yelp from Frank's lips. "I'm going to take my time with you first. Going to get you ready. Going to make you fall apart."

His hands spread Frank wider, and then—

Oh God.

Gerard's tongue.

Frank's brain short-circuited. He'd expected fingers, expected Gerard to move things along, but instead Gerard was on his knees behind him, and his mouth was on Frank's ass, tongue circling his hole, licking, teasing.

"Fuck!" Frank's hips jerked forward, but Gerard's hands held him in place.

"Stay still," Gerard ordered against his skin. Then his tongue was back, pressing in, and Frank made a sound he'd never heard himself make before.

It was obscene. Filthy. Gerard ate him out like he was starving for it, tongue working Frank open, alternating between broad strokes and focused pressure. Frank's arms shook. His cock leaked against the desk. He couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel—Gerard's mouth on him, Gerard's stubble rough against his skin, Gerard's hands holding him open and exposed.

"Gerard—" Frank's voice broke. "Oh God, Gerard—"

Gerard pulled back just enough to speak. "You taste so fucking good." Then he was back at it, tongue pushing deeper, and Frank's knees nearly gave out.

He'd had this done before, but never like this. Never with this intensity, this focus. Gerard was taking him apart with just his mouth, and Frank was helpless to do anything but take it.

When Gerard finally pulled away, Frank was shaking. Panting. His hole felt wet and sensitive, clenching around nothing.

"Good boy," Gerard murmured. Frank heard him stand, heard the sound of a drawer opening. "You're doing so well for me."

Frank's brain was too fuzzy to process what that meant until he heard the click of a bottle cap. Lube. Gerard had lube in his desk. Of course he fucking did. He'd planned this. Had been ready for this.

"Breathe," Gerard said. His hand came to rest on Frank's lower back again, grounding. Then Frank felt the cool slick of lube, Gerard's finger circling his rim. "Relax for me."

Frank tried. Forced his muscles to unclench. Gerard's finger pressed in slowly, carefully, and Frank's breath punched out of him.

"That's it," Gerard praised. He worked his finger deeper, twisting, searching. When he found Frank's prostate, Frank's whole body jerked. "There we go."

He added a second finger, stretching, scissoring. Frank's forehead pressed against the desk. The wood was cool against his flushed skin. Gerard was thorough, patient, working him open with steady precision. When he added a third finger, Frank moaned.

"You're so tight," Gerard said, his voice strained. "So perfect. Taking my fingers so well. Think you can take my cock?"

"Yes." Frank's voice was barely recognizable. "Yes, please, I can—I need—"

Gerard's fingers withdrew, and Frank whimpered at the loss. He heard the sound of Gerard slicking himself up, heard his breathing go ragged. Then the blunt pressure of Gerard's cock against his hole.

"Fuck, Frankie," Gerard said. His hand came to rest on Frank's hip, thumb stroking in small circles. 

Frank gasped, "Please, Gerard. Please fuck me."

Gerard pushed in.

Slow. Controlled. Relentless. Frank's mouth fell open on a silent cry as Gerard filled him, inch by inch, stretching him wider than the fingers had. It burned. It was too much. It was perfect.

"Breathe," Gerard reminded him, voice tight. "Relax. Let me in."

Frank tried. Forced himself to breathe through it, to open up. Gerard kept pushing until he was fully seated, his hips flush against Frank's ass. They both froze there for a moment, breathing hard.

"Fuck," Gerard groaned. "You feel—Christ, Frank. You're so tight. So good."

Frank couldn't speak. Could barely think. He felt split open, claimed, owned. Gerard's cock was buried inside him, and every nerve ending in his body was on fire.

"Move," Frank managed. "Please move."

Gerard pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, then thrust back in. Frank's fingers scrabbled against the desk. Gerard did it again, setting a steady rhythm. Not gentle, but not brutal either. Controlled. Deliberate. Each thrust hit that spot inside Frank that made stars burst behind his eyelids.

"So good," Gerard was saying, his voice rough. "Taking me so well. Like you were made for my cock."

Frank moaned. His own cock was trapped between his body and the desk, getting friction with every thrust, and it was too much and not enough all at once. He was going to come. He was going to fall apart.

Gerard's pace increased. His grip on Frank's hips tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The desk creaked under them. Papers slid to the floor. Frank didn't care. Couldn't care about anything except the feeling of Gerard inside him, fucking him, owning him.

"Touch yourself," Gerard ordered. "Want to feel you come on my cock."

Frank's hand flew to his dick, wrapping around it, stroking in time with Gerard's thrusts. It only took a few pulls before he was there, teetering on the edge.

"Gerard—" Frank's voice broke. "I'm gonna—"

"Do it," Gerard growled. "Come for me. Let me feel it."

Frank came with a cry, his whole body seizing up, his ass clenching around Gerard's cock. His vision whited out. Pleasure crashed through him in waves, and he distantly heard Gerard curse, felt his rhythm falter.

"Fuck—Frank—" Gerard's hips snapped forward one last time, and then he was coming too, buried deep inside Frank, groaning through it.

They stayed like that for a long moment, both of them shaking, breathing hard. Frank's legs felt like jelly. His mind was blank, floating. Gerard's weight was warm against his back.

Finally, Gerard pulled out carefully. Frank whimpered at the loss, feeling empty, used. Gerard's hands were gentle as he helped Frank stand, turned him around. Frank's legs nearly gave out, and Gerard caught him, pulled him close.

"I've got you," Gerard murmured against his hair. "I've got you."

Frank buried his face in Gerard's shoulder and just breathed. His body felt wrung out, satisfied in a way he'd never experienced before. Gerard held him, one hand stroking up and down his spine, the other cradling the back of his head.

"You okay?" Gerard asked after a while. His voice was soft, concerned.

Frank nodded against his shoulder. "Yeah. Better than okay."

Gerard pulled back just enough to look at him, searching his face. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him because he smiled—small and genuine and maybe a little awed. "Good. You were perfect. So fucking perfect."

Frank's chest tightened. He didn't know what to say to that, so he just leaned up and kissed Gerard. Soft and slow, nothing like the desperate kisses from earlier. Gerard kissed him back with a tenderness that made Frank's heart ache.

When they finally broke apart, Gerard helped Frank clean up. Found tissues, helped him get dressed, straightened his clothes with careful hands. The intimacy of it was almost overwhelming. This was Gerard taking care of him, and Frank felt something shift in his chest. Something that felt dangerously close to falling.

"Come on," Gerard said eventually, guiding Frank to the small couch against the wall. "Sit. Rest for a minute."

Frank sank into the cushions gratefully. His legs still felt shaky, and his ass was definitely going to be sore tomorrow. Gerard sat next to him, close enough that their thighs touched, and took Frank's hand.

They sat in silence for a while, just breathing together, the adrenaline slowly draining away. Outside, the city hummed. Inside, Frank felt like he'd been taken apart and put back together differently.

"We should talk," Gerard said finally. "About what happens next. About boundaries and expectations. About how this is going to work."

Frank nodded. His mind felt clearer now, and he knew Gerard was right. They needed to have that conversation. Needed to figure out the details.

"But not tonight," Gerard continued. He squeezed Frank's hand. "Tonight you should go home. Get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow. Really talk."

"Okay," Frank said. His voice was still hoarse, but it was his voice again. "Tomorrow."

Frank slipped out into the empty office. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright after the dim warmth of Gerard's office. He walked to his desk on autopilot, checked that he had everything. His whole body ached in the best way. He could still feel Gerard inside him, could still taste him on his tongue.

Chapter Text

Gerard had always been a very punctual person. He was also not one that stared at the clock multiple times a day. He did his job. He stayed focused the entire time, whisking away meetings, emails, and clients that came to him for every need of theirs.

His office was a testament to that focus—minimalist, organized, everything in its place. A single potted succulent sat in the corner of his desk, next to a black coffee mug that read "World's Okayest Boss"—a gag gift from Steve at last year's Secret Santa that he'd never bothered to replace. His computer monitor glowed with spreadsheets and case files, the familiar hum of the tower a constant white noise he'd long since stopped noticing.

Gerard had arrived at 7:30 that morning, same as always. He'd made his rounds through the office, nodded to the early arrivals, poured himself coffee from the break room, and settled into his chair by 7:45. By 8:00, he was already three emails deep into his inbox, responding with his usual efficiency. A client meeting at 8:15 had gone smoothly—contract renewal, standard terms, handshake and done. He'd returned to his desk, pulled up the quarterly reports he needed to review, and had been steadily working through them when the feeling started.

Today was different. Something felt off. Gerard had this feeling in the pit of his stomach that just didn't feel right.

It wasn't anything he could name at first—just a low-grade unease that made his shoulders tense, made him shift in his chair more than usual. He tried to push through it, eyes scanning the same paragraph of the report three times without absorbing a single word. The office around him buzzed with its usual Monday morning energy—keyboards clacking, phones ringing in distant cubicles, the muffled conversation of two coworkers discussing their weekend near the water cooler. Everything was normal. Everything was fine.

Except it wasn't.

Gerard sighed, looking at the time.

8:45 AM.

That was weird. Frank should have been at his desk by now. Gerard's eyes flicked toward the window, toward the cubicles, and that's when the unease crystallized into something more specific. Gerard pulled up the workplace messaging system to send Frank a message, but his icon was offline. The little gray circle next to Frank's name stared back at him, lifeless. Gerard scratched his head, furrowing his brow. He pushed his chair back slightly, angling himself to get a better view through the window of his office.

Frank's desk was empty. The chair was tucked in neatly, the way it had been when Gerard had walked past it earlier that morning. No jacket slung over the back. No messenger bag on the floor. No coffee cup sweating condensation onto the coaster Frank always used.

Gerard leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming once against the armrest. Frank hadn't been late in a few months, not since they had started their relationship. Everything was going really well between them. Frank had only bratted a few times, but otherwise he showed up on time and completed all his work. He'd been punctual, focused, even eager at times—showing up early some mornings to get a head start on his assignments, staying late when a project demanded it. Gerard had been proud of that progress, had told Frank as much during their last check-in.

Something just felt off. Gerard had this feeling in the pit of his stomach that just didn't feel right.

It wasn't anything he could name at first—just a low-grade unease that made his shoulders tense, made him shift in his chair more than usual. He tried to push through it, eyes scanning the same paragraph of the report three times without absorbing a single word. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised to type a response to an email, but the words wouldn't come. He clicked his pen once. Twice. Set it down. Picked it up again.

The office around him buzzed with its usual Monday morning energy—keyboards clacking, phones ringing in distant cubicles, the muffled conversation of two coworkers discussing their weekend near the water cooler. Everything was normal. Everything was fine.

Except it wasn't.

Gerard rolled his shoulders back, trying to release the tension gathering there. He told himself he was being ridiculous.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, checked the screen. Nothing. He set it face-up on his desk this time, where he could see it light up the moment a notification came through.

His mind started to wander down paths he didn't want to follow. What if Frank had gotten into an accident on the way to work? What if something happened with his probation? What if there was a family emergency and Frank couldn't get to his phone? What if he was hurt? What if he was in trouble? What if—

What if Frank had been mugged on his way to work? What if someone—

Gerard exhaled slowly and placed the phone face down on his desk. The screen went dark, leaving only his reflection staring back at him—pale, tense, jaw tight.

Maybe traffic. Maybe he slept through his alarm. Maybe the trains were delayed. He continued to tell himself over and over again, each repetition feeling more hollow than the last. All rational possibilities. The city was a black hole on Monday mornings; even the most punctual employees got swallowed up by signal delays and gridlock. He'd seen it happen dozens of times. People stumbling in thirty, forty minutes late with apologies and coffee-stained excuses.

But something in his gut still tugged anyway.

Gerard leaned back in his chair, pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw spots.

Four days ago, Frank had a meeting with his judge and probation counselor. Gerard had asked him about it that morning, casual but pointed, and Frank had shrugged it off afterward, insisting everything was fine—routine check-in, nothing to worry about. He'd been his normal self that afternoon. Bratty. Sharp-tongued. Annoyingly confident. He'd even made a joke about Gerard's tie being "aggressively boring" before diving back into his work with that focused intensity he got when he was actually engaged in something.

Nothing seemed wrong. Nothing had changed.

8:57 a.m.

He checked his phone again. Still nothing.

A quiet unease crawled under his skin, settling into his bones like a chill he couldn't shake.

He pulled up Frank's most recent case report on his computer—not to dig, not to overstep, but to reassure himself that nothing had changed in the internship requirements. His eyes scanned the familiar fields, the dates, the notes from previous check-ins. Everything was as it had been. No new notes. No warnings. No flags. The document stared back at him, offering no answers, no comfort.

He checked the time again.

9:04 a.m.

Now, he was an hour late.

This silence was too quiet.

Gerard stood.

He didn't even register himself doing it—his legs were moving before his mind caught up, his body making the decision his brain was still debating. The chair rolled back with a soft scrape against the floor. He grabbed his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and moved toward the door of his office.

The moment he stepped out, the ambient noise of the office hit him—a wall of sound he usually filtered out without thinking. Today it felt too loud, too normal, too oblivious to the wrongness coiling in his chest.

He walked past the desks, his stride purposeful but controlled. Frank's empty chair sat there like an accusation. The desk was neat—too neat. No scattered papers, no half-empty coffee cup, no evidence that anyone had been there at all that morning. Gerard's jaw tightened as he passed it, forcing his eyes forward.

"Morning, Mr. Way," someone called—Sarah from accounting, her voice bright and cheerful.

He nodded in her direction without really seeing her, his mind already three steps ahead.

Past the cubicles, past the break room where someone was microwaving something that smelled vaguely of burnt popcorn, past the conference room where a meeting was already in progress, voices muffled behind frosted glass. His dress shoes clicked sharply on the tile, each step echoing down the corridor in a rhythm that felt too fast, too urgent. He tried to slow down, tried to look casual, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

A few heads turned as he passed. He could feel their eyes on him—curious, maybe concerned. Gerard didn't usually move through the office like this, with this kind of barely-contained tension radiating off him. He kept his expression neutral, professional, even as his heart rate picked up with each step.

The corridor stretched longer than he remembered. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that flat, corporate glow that made the beige walls look even more lifeless. Motivational posters lined the hallway—teamwork, innovation, integrity—words that felt hollow and meaningless right now.

He turned the corner toward the HR wing, and the atmosphere shifted. This part of the building was quieter, more insulated. Carpet replaced tile, muffling his footsteps. The walls here were painted a softer cream color, decorated with abstract art that was probably meant to be calming but just felt sterile.

He reached the HR wing and paused at Janine's door.

His hand hovered for a moment before he knocked. Twice. Sharp, controlled.

"Come in," she called.

Gerard pushed the door open, stepping into the space. Her office was bright, organized, and smelled faintly of lavender—some essential oil diffuser on the shelf behind her desk, probably. She looked up from her screen when he entered, expression lifting into her usual polite smile—one that dimmed almost immediately when she saw his face.

"Mr. Way," she said, her tone shifting from casual to concerned in the space of two syllables. She set down the pen she'd been holding, giving him her full attention. "Everything okay?"

Gerard closed the door behind him—not all the way, just enough to muffle the ambient office noise. He stayed standing, one hand still on the door handle, the other slipping into his pocket where his phone sat silent and useless.

He shook his head slightly, the movement barely perceptible. "I'm not sure."

Janine's brows drew together. She straightened in her chair, reaching for the tablet that sat beside her keyboard. Her movements were efficient, practiced—she'd had this kind of conversation before, Gerard realized. The kind where someone came to her office with worry written all over them, trying to keep it professional.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice gentle but direct.

He took a breath, keeping his voice controlled even as his fingers tightened around his phone through the fabric of his pocket. "Did Mr. Iero call off today?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Janine's expression shifted—not quite surprise, but something close to it. Recognition, maybe. She glanced at her tablet, then back at him.

"Not that I'm aware of." She tapped quickly across her screen, switching apps with practiced ease. "Let me check my voicemails."

Gerard watched as she pressed the phone to her ear, her eyes unfocused as she listened. He could hear the faint murmur of the automated voice on the other end, too quiet to make out the words. One message. Her expression didn't change. Two. Still nothing. Three.

She set the phone down slowly, deliberately, and Gerard's stomach dropped before she even spoke.

"Nothing from him," she said.

Gerard's jaw tightened. He felt his molars press together, felt the tension spread up into his temples. "And email?"

Janine was already pulling it up, her fingers moving across the keyboard. She scrolled, her eyes scanning quickly. Gerard found himself leaning forward slightly, as if he could see the screen from where he stood, as if he could will a message to appear.

"No messages," she said finally. "No notices. Nothing from the court liaison either."

He stepped closer, unable to disguise the tension beginning to coil through him. His hand came out of his pocket, fingers flexing once before he forced them to still. "Are you certain?"

Janine looked up at him, and there was something in her expression—understanding, maybe, or sympathy. She'd worked in HR long enough to read people, to see what they weren't saying.

"Yes," she said gently, her tone softer now. "If he called out, I'd have it here. Protocol requires notification within the first hour of a shift, and we're well past that now."

Gerard exhaled through his nose, steady but strained. He could feel his control slipping, could feel the professional mask he wore starting to crack at the edges. His hand came up to adjust his glasses—a nervous habit he'd never quite broken—and he caught himself, lowering it again.

Janine studied him for a long moment, her head tilting slightly. "Is everything all right with Frank?" she asked carefully. "Did something happen?"

The question was loaded. Gerard could hear the subtext beneath it—Is this professional concern, or is this something else? He kept his expression flat, neutral, even as his heart hammered against his ribs.

“Not…not that I’m aware of. We discussed more boundaries here at work, then he discussed his court and probation stuff, but other than that, everything seemed fine. He seemed fine,” he said, the words coming out more clipped than he intended.

It wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth.

"Then this is unusual behavior?" Janine pressed, but her tone wasn't accusatory. She was trying to help, trying to understand the scope of the situation.

"Yes," Gerard said before he could think better of it.

The admission surprised even him. It hung in the air between them, carrying more weight than a single word should. Janine's expression softened further, and Gerard saw the moment she decided not to push, not to ask the questions she was clearly thinking.

She nodded once, setting her tablet down with a soft click against the desk. "I'll try calling him."

"No," Gerard said quickly, the word coming out sharper than he meant it to.

Janine's eyebrows rose, and Gerard felt heat creep up the back of his neck. He pulled in a breath, forcing his voice back to something calmer, more measured.

"I already reached out," he said, each word carefully controlled. "I'd like to give him a few more minutes to respond before we escalate."

Before we make this official. Before it goes on record. Before it becomes something he can't come back from.

Janine held his gaze for a moment, and Gerard could see her processing, reading between the lines he'd drawn. She softened at that, her shoulders relaxing slightly, and she nodded.

"All right," she said quietly. "I'll notify you if anything comes in."

There was understanding in her voice, an acknowledgment of what he wasn't saying. Gerard felt something in his chest loosen, just slightly.

He nodded, his throat tight. "Thank you."

He turned toward the door, his hand already reaching for the handle, when Janine spoke again.

"Gerard."

He paused, glancing back. She rarely used his first name.

"I hope he's okay," she said simply.

Gerard's fingers tightened on the door handle. He managed a nod, not trusting his voice, and stepped out into the hallway.

Gerard's fingers tightened on the door handle. He managed a nod, not trusting his voice, and stepped out into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality that made his chest constrict. For a moment, he just stood there in the carpeted silence of the HR wing, one hand still resting on Janine's door, the other clenched at his side. The abstract art on the walls seemed to blur at the edges of his vision.

He forced himself to move.

The walk back felt different than the walk there. Slower. Heavier. Each step required conscious effort, as if he were moving through water. The fluorescent lights seemed harsher now, the hum louder, more insistent. When he passed the conference room, the meeting was still going—the same muffled voices, the same oblivious normalcy. The world kept turning, kept functioning, completely unaware that something was wrong.

Sarah from accounting was still at her desk, typing away. She didn't look up this time.

Frank's empty chair came into view again, and Gerard had to force himself not to stop, not to stare at it like it might suddenly produce answers. The desk was still neat. Still untouched. Still wrong.

He made it back to his office and closed the door behind him. The click of the latch felt too loud in the quiet space.

Gerard stood there for a moment, back against the door, and let himself breathe. Just breathe. His office looked exactly as he'd left it—the reports still open on his computer screen, his coffee mug still sitting in the same spot, the succulent still alive in its pot. Everything was the same. Everything was fine.

Except Frank was still out there somewhere. Not answering. Not showing up.

Gerard moved to his desk on autopilot, sinking into his chair. The leather creaked under his weight. He pulled his phone out again, the screen lighting up his face in the dim office. No notifications. No missed calls. No messages.

He set it on the desk, face-up this time, where he could see it immediately if anything came through.

The quiet twist in Gerard's stomach tightened into something sharper, something that felt dangerously close to panic. He pressed his palms flat against the desk, feeling the cool wood beneath his hands, grounding himself.

Think. Think rationally.

But rational thought was slipping away from him, replaced by a growing sense of dread that he couldn't shake, couldn't reason away. Frank had been doing so well. They'd been doing so well. The dynamic had been working, the structure had been helping, and Frank had been thriving under it. Gerard had watched him grow more confident, more focused, more present over the past few months.

And now he was just... gone.

He checked his phone again, pulling it from his pocket even though he'd just checked it thirty seconds ago. The screen was blank except for his wallpaper—a simple black background, no notifications.

Still no message.

Gerard closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. The pressure did nothing to ease the tension building behind his eyes, the headache that was starting to form.

When he opened his eyes again, the office looked the same. His desk, his computer, his files. Everything in its place. Everything except the one person who should have been out there in the bullpen, working at his desk, probably making some smartass comment about Gerard's tie or his coffee order or the way he organized his files.

The silence was suffocating.

Gerard sat down heavily in his chair, the leather creaking in protest. He pulled his phone out one more time, staring at the screen as if he could will a message into existence. His fingers hovered over Frank's contact, the urge to call him almost overwhelming.

But what if Frank was in trouble? What if calling would make things worse? What if—

Stop.

He set the phone down on his desk with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet office.

He wasn't just worried as Frank's supervisor. He wasn't just concerned as his mentor in the internship program.

He was terrified as someone who cared about Frank in ways that went far beyond professional obligation. As someone who'd watched Frank walk into his life with that sharp tongue and sharper smile and somehow burrow his way past every defense Gerard had carefully constructed.

And now Frank was out there somewhere, unreachable, and Gerard had no idea if he was okay.

The not knowing was the worst part. The silence. The absence of information, of reassurance, of Frank's voice on the other end of the line saying something bratty and infuriating and perfectly him.

Gerard's hand curled into a fist on his desk.

X X X

Frank woke up before his alarm, the faint morning light pressing through the blinds in uneven strips that cut the room into warm and cool patches. He blinked against the glow, groggy but steady in the way he’d grown used to lately — a kind of quiet rhythm he’d built for himself after months of chaos. Mornings weren’t effortless, but they were predictable. Familiar. Comforting. The thin hum of city traffic filtered through the window, and for a moment he lay still, letting the routine settle around him like armor.

Then his phone buzzed before he even reached for it.

He frowned, rolling over to check the screen.
Unknown number.

His thumb hesitated half a second before he answered, voice rough with sleep. “Yeah, hello?”

The voice on the other end did not match any kind of normal morning. It was too calm. Too measured. The kind of voice that practiced speaking about terrible things without letting emotion crack through.

“Is this Frank Iero?”

Frank sat up instantly, a cold ripple crawling down his spine. “Yeah—who is this?”

“This is St. Mary’s Hospital.” A beat. The faint sound of papers shifting. “Are you the son of Linda Iero?”

Frank’s blood drained so fast he felt light-headed.

“I--yes,” he managed, the word barely a sound. “I—I’m her son. Why?”

“She was involved in an automobile collision this morning,” the voice said gently, as if lowering its tone might soften the blow. “She was transported here approximately twenty minutes ago. She is alive. But she is in critical condition, and you were listed as an emergency contact.”

Alive.
But critical.

The world seemed to tilt sideways, like the floor shifted under him. Every sound in the room — the faint traffic outside, the fridge humming down the hall — blurred into a distant, meaningless drone. His heart seized hard in his chest, then stuttered into a frantic pace.

He didn’t remember responding.
He didn’t remember hanging up.
He didn’t remember grabbing his jacket.

All he knew was that at some point his front door slammed behind him, and then he was outside, running. Running without thinking, without breathing, without feeling the pavement under his feet.

The city blurred around him, smeared like paint under rain — taxi cabs honking, strangers yelling, crossing lights flashing red and white and red again. He didn’t know if he waited for the train or dove into a cab or sprinted until his lungs burned. He didn’t remember weaving between people. Didn’t remember the ache in his legs. Didn’t remember paying anyone or pushing through crowds.

He only remembered the hospital doors.

They parted for him with a sound too gentle for the panic gnawing at his chest, and suddenly the world smelled like antiseptic and cold tile. Everything inside the building felt too bright, too sharp — a place where terrible news lived in fluorescent lighting.

Frank stumbled to the front desk, out of breath and half incoherent.

“My—my mom,” he gasped. “Linda Iero—someone called—she’s here—I need—I need to—please—” His voice broke, splintered apart by panic.

The receptionist, a woman with tired eyes and a soft voice, stood immediately. “Take a breath, sir. Come with me. I’ll bring you to the surgical wing.”

He didn’t breathe. He couldn’t.

He followed her down a hallway that seemed to stretch for miles, each harsh fluorescent light buzzing overhead like an omen. Doors opened and shut around him; nurses murmured to each other, pushing carts of equipment; the distant beeping of monitors punctured the air like a pulse.

And then he was in a waiting room.
Blue floor.
Blue chairs.
Blue walls.

It all bled together until he couldn’t tell where one thing ended and another began. Everything felt cold. Everything felt wrong.

He sat or maybe collapsed — he wasn’t sure which — into one of the stiff plastic chairs, hands trembling in his lap. His breaths came in uneven, shaky bursts, and he wiped his face again and again, ashamed of the tears and yet unable to stop them.

The next hours dissolved into fragments.

A doctor passing through the double doors without meeting his eyes.
A nurse offering him water he couldn’t bring himself to drink.
Someone asking him if there was anyone else they could call.
Clock hands ticking in relentless, perfect circles.

Time didn’t move normally. It stretched, then snapped, then stretched again.

Every few minutes, a memory surfaced — his mother brushing crumbs off his shirt before school; lecturing him in the car after getting caught shoplifting; hugging him too tightly after one of his court hearings; staying up with him the night he told her he didn’t think he would make it past twenty.

She was strong.
Always strong.
Always unshakable.

Seeing her fragile felt impossible.
Unthinkable.

Frank folded forward, elbows on his knees, pressing his palms into his eyes until sparks bloomed behind his lids. His shoulders shook again, smaller this time, but still uncontrollable. Each sob scraped raw against his throat.

It wasn’t until a nurse gently tapped his shoulder and asked if he needed anything — a blanket, water, someone to call — that he realized something was missing.

His phone.

He patted his pockets.

Left.
Right.
Jacket.
Jeans.

Nothing.

Panic surged again, but this panic was different — sharper, directed, desperate in a new way.

He hadn’t told Gerard.

He hadn’t told anyone at work. He hadn’t called in. He hadn’t checked in. He hadn’t even thought about it.

Frank pushed to his feet, dizzy for a second, and stumbled toward the front desk, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice wrecked. “I—I need a phone. Can I borrow a phone?”

The nurse behind the desk sized him up — red eyes, blotchy face, trembling hands — and her expression softened. She nodded and handed him a landline.

“Take your time,” she murmured.

Frank gripped the phone like a lifeline. He stepped away from the main desk, retreating to a quiet corner near the vending machines, where the light was dimmer and fewer people could see him falling apart.

He dialed the number for Way & Associates from memory — muscle memory from months of calling the office for dumb reasons: printer jammed, wrong access pass, forgot his login. He blinked hard as it rang.

Once.
Twice.
Three times —

“Way & Associates, this is Bree at the front desk. How can I direct your call?”

Frank’s breath hitched, and he pressed the phone harder to his ear, like he could disappear into it.

“H-hi,” he said, voice cracking instantly. “I—I need Gerard. Way. Please. Can you—can you put me through to him?”

A pause.
Concern.

“…sir? Are you okay?”

Frank swallowed, but nothing helped the burning in his throat. Tears spilled over again, hot trails down his cheeks.

“Just—please,” he whispered, broken. “It’s Frank. Please put me through.”

“…of course. One moment.”

The hold music played — soft, generic piano that felt cruelly calm.

He clutched the phone with both hands to stop the shaking.

Then — a click.

Gerard’s voice came on the line.

Calm. Low. Controlled.
But not as controlled as usual.

“Frank?”

Frank’s chest caved in. The moment he heard his name in that voice — steady, familiar, grounding — the dam broke.

A sob tore out of him, jagged and raw.

“Gerard—” His voice shattered immediately. “I—I’m sorry—I’m at St. Mary’s—my mom—she—she was in a car accident—she’s in surgery—they won’t tell me anything—I don’t know what’s happening—I didn’t bring my phone—I didn’t call—I didn’t—fuck—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning against the wall for support.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he whispered. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

There was silence on the other end.

Not empty silence.

Holding silence.

Listening silence.

Then—

“I’m coming,” Gerard said, voice steady and absolute. “I’m leaving now.”

Frank shook his head, panic flaring again. “No—no, you don’t have to—I wasn’t—I wasn’t calling to make you come down here—I just—”

“I’m already on my way.”

“Gerard—”

“Frank.”

The tone froze him.

Firm. Clear. Final.

“I’m coming to you,” Gerard repeated. “I’ll be there soon.”

Frank pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle another sob, shoulders shaking as he leaned against the wall.

He didn’t argue again.

He didn’t have the strength.

And for the first time since the phone call that morning—

He didn’t feel like he was drowning alone.

Chapter Text

Frank didn’t know how long he had been staring at the machines. The machines had a steady rise and fall of the ventilator, the rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor, and the slow drip, drip, drip of the IV line that disappeared beneath the layers of tape and bruised ski. Everything felt too loud. Too bright. This was a side of his mom that Frank had never seen before; his mom laid in the bed looking…smaller. His mom was a small, short, Italian woman, but she was never fragile. She was never weak. She was always the loudest woman in the room. She was the one who took over the debate rooms and reporters and crowds just by opening her mouth.

But now…now she looked fragile in a way that made something deep inside of him break.

There was a tube that ran down her throat, taped at the corners of her mouth. Her chest rose and fell mechanically, the machine doing the work her body couldn’t do just yet. Her hair which was usually perfectly styled for the cameras and court, fanned across the pillow in tangled dark waves, streaked with gray he barely noticed until now. There were bandages on her head and forehead. She was pale.

Frank sat hunched in the chair beside her bed, fingers curled around her hand. She was cold, limp, but it was still her. His thumb dragged absently across her knuckles, tracing the bone, tendon, the familiar curve that held him the same way when he was small, that had steadied him through every fuck up and court hearing.

He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, or how long he had been crying. The tears came in waives – quiet, then gut wrenching, then quiet again. His face felt swollen. His head throbbed. Everything hurt.

He kept whispering to her, “Mom, please. Please wake up. You can’t leave me.”

Frank could hear the door open in the background; he didn’t even look up. He couldn’t. He was afraid that the movement would shatter him entirely. Then he heard the quiet footsteps, measured and familiar. The soft rustle of a coat, and a breath drawn in sharply like someone had been running for miles.

Frank lifted his head to see Gerard standing inside the doorway. He was still wearing his work clothes. Gerard’s chest rose and fell too fast like he had just climbed every flight of stairs instead of taking the elevator. The moment their eyes met, something in Frank broke all over again. His face crumpled. He let out a wet choked sound he didn’t recognize, and the tears spilled over before he could stop them.

Gerard crossed the room without hesitation. He didn’t speak or ask questions. He simply grabbed the second chair ad pulled it beside Frank. As he sat down, he reached across the beside table, grabbed the box of tissues and gently sat them down in Frank’s lap. It was the small act of kindness that made the tears come faster and harder.

“I don’t—,” Frank tried to choke out, but his voice was broken. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her, Gerard.”

Gerard placed a steady hand between Frank’s shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles as he tried to ground the younger man. It was wordless but present in a way Frank didn’t know he needed it until it was there. For a long time, Frank couldn’t even form a sentence. His breathing was loud and ragged. He still gripped his mom’s hand like a scared little boy.

Frank swallowed hard, tears dripping off his chin. “I don’t even—I don’t even remember how I got here. I think I ran. Or maybe I took a cab—no, I don’t even have my wallet. Fuck. Oh my god.”

Everything inside him was unraveling at once; thought after thought spilling out faster than he could control it. “She’s all I have,” he whispered. “She’s the only person who stuck with me through everything. Through the probation, the hearings, the court crap, all the stupid shit I did. She never gave up on me.”

His voice cracked. “And now she’s just…lying here, and I can’t do anything.”

Gerard’s thumb brushed a slow arc against Frank’s back as he continued to stay quiet to let the younger man get whatever he needed to say out.

Frank squeezed his mother’s hand tighter. “I should’ve—I should’ve stayed with her this morning. Or—I don’t know. Something. Anything.” He sniffed hard, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I didn’t even bring my phone. I didn’t call in. I didn’t tell anyone where I was. I just ran.”

Frank started to laugh. “I just violated my probation. If the judge finds out—if my probation office finds out, oh my god, I am so fucked. I am so going to prison, Gerard. Who’s going to take care of my mom then?!”

“Frank,” Gerard said quietly as he sat forward, slow and deliberate. He rested a hand over Frank’s trembling one. “Look at me, please.”

Frank tried. Failed. Tried again. Then his eyes finally lifted to Gerard’s. “There is no universe where I let you go to prison because your mother was in a car accident.”

Frank tried to speak, but Gerard continued. “I don’t care what your probation officer things. I don’t care what any judge thinks. I’ll handle it. I will make the calls. I will take full responsibility for the absence.”

Frank’s breath hitched. “But, Gerard—”

“You’re not leaving her side, Frank,” Gerard added, gentle yet firm. “You’re not leaving this hospital until she’s stable. You’re certainly not being taken away in handcuffs because you were sitting at your mother’s bedside.”

Frank’s throat tightened painfully. He let out a shaky, desperate laugh. “I don’t. Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because you’re not alone.” The words struck something deep inside of Frank.

“I’m here,” Gerard said, “I’m not leaving.”

Frank closed his eyes, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. It was quieter this time, but not less raw. He didn’t know what would happen next. He didn’t know if his mother would wake up. He didn’t know what this meant for him, for Gerard, for his future. But in that sterile hospital room, with the machines beeping steadily and grief twisting through him, he wasn’t alone. For the first time all day, he wasn’t alone.

XXX

The hospital room felt colder than it should have. Maybe it was the air conditioning, maybe it was the almost-too-bright lights. Or maybe it was the sight of Linda Iero lying unconscious in a bed too big for her, her chest rising only because the ventilator forced it to.

But mostly, it was Frank.

This was the most broken Gerard had seen Frank. Frank, whose sharp tongue and louder than life energy had been stripped down to a trembling, red-rimmed-eyed boy who was gripping his mother’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the Earth. Gerard had seen the young man angry, reckless, bratty, bold, but never had seen him so afraid. And it twisted something deep in Gerard’s chest, something he couldn’t name — something he wasn’t sure he wanted to name.

The two chairs in the room sat close together, almost touching. When Gerard settled into his, he made sure to leave space for Frank to breathe, to collapse, to gather himself… but he didn’t step far away. Not today.

For the first time in his life, Gerard didn’t care about lines or propriety or how anything might look. He’d dropped every meeting, ignored every call, walked out of the office before anyone could question him. HR could figure it out. The board could figure it out. The city could burn for all he cared.

Now, sitting beside Frank in that sterile room, he finally allowed himself to exhale — slow, controlled, measured — the kind of breath he reserved for moments that mattered.

Frank’s breathing had evened out, though his shoulders still trembled every few minutes. He hadn’t stopped crying since Gerard arrived, though the tears had quieted into silent, exhausted streams rather than wracking sobs. His fingers were still tangled around his mother’s hand.

Minutes blurred together into something shapeless. Gerard didn’t look at the clock again. He didn’t need to. He could feel time moving in the soft rise and fall of Frank’s breathing. At some point — Gerard wasn’t sure when — Frank shifted in his chair. The movement was slow, instinctive, a tired body searching for comfort it couldn’t find.

Then, suddenly, Frank leaned sideways.

His head came to rest on Gerard’s shoulder.

Frank was asleep.

XXX

Frank’s breathing grew steadier still, the kind of rhythm that comes after a day full of breaking down. His hair brushed Gerard’s collar. His body leaned more fully into him, unconsciously seeking warmth.

Gerard didn’t move.

He wasn’t sure he even could.

A knock broke the quiet.

Soft. Polite. Quick.

The door opened, and a doctor stepped inside — a tall man in blue scrubs, clipboard in hand, expression professional but tired. The moment he entered, Frank startled awake.

He jerked upright so fast Gerard barely caught the chair before it tipped.

Frank blinked, disoriented, wiping quickly at his face like he needed to hide that he’d been asleep — or hiding the fact he’d been crying. His eyes darted to the doctor, then to his mother, then briefly — uncertainly — back to Gerard.

The doctor stepped closer, flipping through his notes. “She’s alive. That’s the first good sign. There’s brain activity. That’s the first good sign. There were internal injuries — several — but the bleeding is controlled now. We’re watching for complications, but she’s stable.”

Frank sagged forward, fists pressing into his thighs as a sob ripped out of him — relief this time, painful and overwhelming.

Gerard placed a steady hand on his back. Frank curled forward, hiding his face in his hands as his shoulders shook again. The news wasn’t perfect — wasn’t safe, wasn’t a promise — but it was hope, and hope hurt in its own sharp way.

The doctor continued, speaking calm and clearly. “She’ll stay sedated for now. It’s going to be a long recovery, but she’s in stable condition. That’s more than we expected, given the severity of the accident.”

Frank could only nod, still folded over himself, crying quietly into his palms.

Gerard rubbed slow, even circles between his shoulders, grounding him through it. His touch was warm, steady, the kind of silent comfort Frank wouldn’t accept from anyone else.

The doctor gave a small, reassuring smile and left the room.

The door clicked softly behind him.

Frank leaned sideways again, trembling, and this time Gerard lifted an arm gently, letting the younger man fold into him without hesitation.

Gerard rested a hand on the back of Frank’s head, fingers brushing the warm strands of his hair.

“Your mother’s alive,” Gerard murmured. “She’s fighting. You’re not losing her today.”

Frank pressed his forehead into Gerard’s shoulder, gripping his sleeve in both hands like a lifeline.

And Gerard held him.

Hours slipped by in soft, uneven stretches — time moving strangely in the quiet hospital room. Afternoon light filtered through the blinds, warm but thin, brushing across the sterile floors in pale rectangles. Machines continued their steady beeping beside Linda’s bed, a mechanical heartbeat filling the silence.

Frank had fallen asleep again, but not on Gerard this time.

Somewhere between the doctor’s update and the second round of nurses checking vitals, Frank had wandered, half-conscious, to the worn gray couch against the far wall. He had curled into himself, knees tucked close, one arm pillowed beneath his head, the other draped loosely over his ribcage.

He looked impossibly young like that. The kind of young that broke something open in Gerard’s chest.

The blanket the nurse had left folded on a chair now lay over Frank’s legs — Gerard had placed it there himself when Frank finally succumbed to exhaustion. His breathing was slow, uneven in the way of someone whose sleep came only because their body couldn’t hold their grief any longer.

Gerard remained in the chair beside Linda’s bed, hands folded loosely in his lap, suit jacket draped over the backrest. His eyes drifted periodically between the mother in the bed and the son asleep across the room.

Both looked fragile in ways Gerard had never expected to witness.

He didn't dare close his own eyes. Not here. Not now.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, breaking the quiet with a low, insistent buzz.

Janine.

“Way,” he said, keeping his voice low enough not to wake Frank.

There was a soft pause on the other end before Janine’s familiar voice filled the line. “Mr. Way? We… noticed you left the office rather abruptly. Is everything alright?”

Gerard’s gaze drifted toward Frank’s sleeping form — the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitched occasionally, the tear streaks still faintly visible on his cheeks.

“No,” Gerard said softly. “It isn’t.”

Janine inhaled sharply. “Frank?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Gerard leaned back in his chair, one hand lifting to adjust his glasses as if the motion could help steady him. “Frank’s mother was in a serious car accident this morning. He rushed to the hospital. He didn’t bring his phone.”

“Oh my god,” Janine whispered. “Is she…?”

“She’s stable,” Gerard replied. “Critical, but stable. She made it through surgery.”

He could almost hear Janine placing a hand over her heart in relief. “Thank goodness.”

Gerard swallowed hard. His voice stayed even, but only because he forced it to. “Frank’s been here all day. He’s… exhausted. Terrified. He didn’t call in because he didn’t have his phone. I don’t want any of this recorded as a violation of protocol.”

“Of course not,” Janine said immediately, her tone shifting into something protective. “I’ll make sure HR doesn’t flag anything. Nothing gets reported.”

“Good,” Gerard murmured. His eyes drifted back to Frank. “He’ll need time.”

“Yes,” Janine agreed. “Does he need medical leave filed? Or—”

“I’m granting him work-from-home accommodations,” Gerard said. “Effective immediately.”

There was a short silence before Janine spoke again. “That’s… unusually flexible of you, Mr. Way.”

Gerard didn’t dignify that with a response. He dragged a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble that had formed during the long hours. “Have the receptionist reschedule my meetings for today. Move everything to two days from now. I’ll be unavailable for the rest of the day.”

“Of course. Should I tell the board anything specific?”

“Tell them I’m handling a time-sensitive personal matter involving one of my team members,” Gerard said, tone crisp, final. “It’s not up for discussion.”

Janine hesitated. “Gerard… is he going to be alright?”

Gerard’s eyes drifted again to Frank — curled into himself, breathing softly, his hair mussed from running panicked hands through it. He looked so breakable it hurt to look at him. “I don’t know,” Gerard admitted.

“I’ll keep you updated,” he added, quiet but firm.

“Please do,” Janine said gently. “And… give him our best.”

“I will.” He ended the call and let the phone rest loosely in his hand for a long moment before setting it on the bedside table.

Evening settled slowly over the hospital, the sunlight fading from gold to dusky gray, then to the sterile blue-white of fluorescent bulbs humming along the ceiling. Linda’s room grew dimmer with each passing hour, shadows stretching longer across the floor. Nurses came and went quietly, checking vitals, adjusting lines, whispering updates that didn’t change anything substantial.

Gerard stayed planted in his chair for as long as he could, watching Frank sleep curled on the couch. Watching Linda’s machines. Watching the clock tick later and later without meaning to. It wasn’t until his own stomach cramped — the sharp pinch of hours without food — that he realized how long it had been since either of them had eaten.

He looked at Frank again.

The younger man was still asleep, legs drawn up, blanket pulled to his chin, face slack with exhaustion. His lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. His lips parted slightly with each soft breath. Every now and then, a tremor rippled through his shoulders — residual stress still crackling through his nervous system.

Gerard stood, stretching quietly to ease the stiff ache in his spine.

He didn’t want to leave the room. Not even for a minute. Not when Frank looked so small, so worn down. But there wasn’t another option. He slid his jacket on, carefully adjusting the collar, then glanced toward the couch once more.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured, knowing Frank wouldn’t hear him but needing to say it anyway.

He slipped out of the room and into the hallway towards the cafeteria. Gerard followed signs toward the cafeteria. The automatic doors opened with a soft whoosh, revealing a nearly empty room: one family huddled in a corner, whispering anxious prayers; an older man asleep in a booth; a nurse eating hastily before diving back into her shift.

He walked to the counter, eyeing the limited options.

Soup. Sandwiches. Pre-cut fruit.
Not much, but enough.

He bought a container of chicken noodle soup — the kind that smelled comforting even if it tasted bland — a ham sandwich, a small salad, and two bottles of water.

He hesitated, then added a pack of chocolate chip cookies. He then made his way back through the hallways, the plastic bag rustling softly with each step. His shoes echoed in slow, steady clicks — the only sign of his presence. He tried to ignore the nagging burn behind his eyes, the exhaustion setting into his bones. The situation was heavy, heavier than anything he’d dealt with in a long time, but he couldn’t afford to fall apart.

Not when Frank needed him the way he clearly did. Not when Linda lay motionless, machines doing the work her body fought to reclaim.

He paused outside the room before entering, steadying himself.

Inside, the lights were dim — a nurse must have switched them to nighttime mode — casting the room in gentle shadows. Frank was still asleep, now turned onto his side, one arm tucked under the pillow, curls falling across his forehead. His breathing was slow and deep, the kind of sleep only crisis could drag someone into.

Gerard set the food down on the small rolling tray beside the couch. The metal clinked softly.

A soft, hoarse noise escaped Frank — half-groan, half-whimper.

Then slowly, he blinked his eyes open.

Confusion hit first, then disorientation. Then the memory of where he was — and why — landed like a blow.

He pushed himself upright too quickly, wincing as pain shot through his back from the awkward angle he’d slept in. He dragged a hand down his face, blinking against the dim light. His eyes were puffy, lashes sticking together at the corners.

“Gerard?” he mumbled, voice scratchy, thick with sleep.

“I’m here,” Gerard said gently from across the room.

“You… left?”

Gerard shook his head. “Only to get food. You haven’t eaten today.”

Frank frowned down at his hands, rubbing his thumb across his palm. “I’m… not hungry.”

“You need to eat anyway,” Gerard said, not unkindly.

Frank sniffed, wiping at his nose with his sleeve, trying to play it off like he hadn’t been sobbing himself unconscious hours earlier. “What time is it?”

“Just after nine.”

“P.M.?” His eyes widened.

Gerard nodded.

Frank blinked harder, struggling to process the lost hours. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You needed it,” Gerard said simply.

Frank looked at him then — really looked — and something in his expression wavered. Gratitude, guilt, vulnerability, all tangled so tightly Gerard couldn’t pull them apart.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Frank whispered.

“I know.”

Frank swallowed. “But you did.”

Gerard stepped closer, not touching him yet, just closing the space enough to be unmistakably present.

“Yes,” Gerard said quietly. “I did.”

Frank’s lip trembled, his eyes flicking briefly toward his mother’s bed before returning to Gerard. “Thank you,” he breathed.