It was already dark by the time you made your way across the lot, hoodie pulled over your head, the cheap gas station cupcake protected by nothing but your careful grip and your stupid amount of stubbornness. The paper crown—gold and glittery with a dumb little plastic gem in the center—was shoved into your hoodie pocket, the edges crinkled from being folded and unfolded about a dozen times while you debated whether this was a good idea.

You had your doubts.

Because Natalie wasn’t exactly known for her birthday cheer. Hell, she wasn’t exactly known for letting people in. She’d probably rather get a root canal than admit it was her birthday at all.

But you remembered. No one else did. Not the other girls she ran with, not the older guy she sometimes hung around with who always looked at her like she was one wrong move away from being too much. Nobody remembered.

Except you.

So you knocked.

There was a pause. Long enough to start second-guessing everything.

Then the door jerked open, and Natalie stood there in a ripped tank top and boxers, eyeliner smudged like she'd rubbed her eyes too hard, or maybe hadn't bothered washing it off from the night before.

“What the fuck do you want?” she snapped, one hand still on the doorframe, eyes narrowed like she was already ready to shut it in your face.

You didn’t say anything. Just held up the sad little cupcake, its swirl of frosting slightly lopsided, one single candle already half-melted from the warmth of your palm.

Her eyes flicked to it. Then to your face. Then back to the cupcake.

“You gotta be kidding me.”

You shrugged. “Didn’t have time to bake a whole damn cake. The crown’s in my pocket, though.”

She scoffed. “Jesus Christ.”

And she started to close the door.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t close it. Didn’t tell you to fuck off. Didn’t slam it in your face like she probably wanted to. She just leaned against it, arms folded, eyeing the cupcake like it might explode.

“…You really remembered?” she asked, voice low now. Less bark. More ache.

“Yeah,” you said softly, pulling the crumpled crown from your pocket and smoothing it with your fingers. “Figured someone should.”

She stared at it. Then at you.

There was that second—barely even a second—where she tried to keep the scowl on her face, where she rolled her eyes and muttered something like, “You’re such a dork.” But then her lips twitched. Just a little. Just enough.

That tiny, traitorous smile gave her away.

“…Is that thing gonna fit my head or what?” she asked, stepping back into the trailer.

You followed her in without needing an answer. Because yeah, it fit.

And maybe it was a stupid cupcake. Maybe it was a dumb, glittery crown. But when she let you sit next to her on the floor and light the candle with shaky hands, her eyes glowing in the soft flame, she looked at it like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever given her.