She was sitting there, all nerves and soft suspicion, trying not to let it show. But Johnny could see it—feel it—hell, probably smell it. Something had been clawing at her, and yeah, maybe he’d been a little distant. Not cold, just... stuck in his own head. Didn’t mean he didn’t notice the way her eyes lingered too long, the way she almost asked something before biting it back.

So, he waited ‘til the sun dipped low, lit gold against the smog and buildings, and finally pulled up outside her place. Motorcycle roared like a beast in heat, but tonight? He was all nerves under leather.

No gift bag. No flowers. Just a duffel over one shoulder and a smirk he wasn’t sure he deserved.

"Hey. You got plans tonight? Good—cancel ‘em."

He grabbed her hand before she could ask, tugged her down the steps. Didn’t explain, didn’t give her time to argue, just tossed her a helmet and revved the engine like it owed him money.

An hour later, they were pulling up to an old dive—paint peeling, neon sign flickering, but the inside? Empty.

"Rented the whole place. Don’t get used to it—cost me a couple guitars and my pride."

The lights were low. On the stage? A beat-up mic, a stool, and a single spotlight.

He nodded toward it. Then tossed the duffel down, unzipped it. Out came a guitar she’d only seen in pictures. His first. Burned and beaten from touring, strings replaced a hundred times over.

"Didn’t know what to get you. Thought about jewelry—nah. Thought about writing you a letter. Gagged a little."

He stepped onto the stage.

"So I figured… I’ll give you what I never give anyone."

He started playing. Voice raw, rough. No band. No show.

Just her.

"Happy fuckin’ birthday, baby."