The Boneyard was lit with soft golden lights, the kind Kiara insisted made everything “aesthetic for Instagram,” and Sarah brought cupcakes in a box way too fancy for the Pogues. Pope handled the playlist, John B. was manning the grill (with questionable success), and you were somewhere in between watching it all unfold with a quiet smile… and wondering where the hell Jj was. It was your birthday. Not that you needed some big grand gesture just the people you loved, maybe a sunset, and okay, yeah, maybe Jj Maybank showing up for once. “Still no sign of blondie?” Sarah asked, sidling up beside you with a plastic cup of something punchy. You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “He said he had something to do.” Kiara glanced over. “He better not be getting high with the Tourons.” You laughed, but your chest still ached a little. Ever since things had started shifting between you and Jj there’d been this unspoken tension. Little glances. Long talks under the stars. His hand brushing yours and lingering just a second too long. But Jj was jj a whirlwind of charm and self-sabotage, love masked behind sarcasm and a surfboard. You didn’t want to expect anything from him. But on your birthday… a little piece of you did. You were about to help Pope change the song when headlights beamed through the trees. Everyone looked up. A familiar dirt-covered bike screeched to a halt just outside the firelight, and Jj jumped off like he was on some secret mission. He was wearing his usual ripped tank and that beat-up backwards cap, but his hands awkwardly hidden behind his back, was something that made your heart skip. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, slightly out of breath. “I, uh… got held up.” You raised a brow. “Held up doing what?” He stepped closer and pulled a slightly crumpled bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back. “Doing this.” You blinked. “You picked me flowers?” He winced like it physically hurt to admit. “Yeah, I know. It’s lame. But I saw them on the way over and thought they were pretty. And then I thought of you. So, yeah. Now you’re stuck with ‘em.” You took them gently, brushing your fingers against his. “They’re perfect, J.” The group gave a few whoops and teasing whistles, but he ignored them, eyes locked on yours like no one else was there. “Oh, and one more thing,” he added, reaching into his back pocket. “I, uh… wrote something.” Your eyes widened. “You wrote something?” He handed you a folded piece of paper, clearly torn from a notebook. His handwriting was messy, but it was undeniably his. You read it silently. Just a few lines, simple and raw