𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟑, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟐

The backstage hallway is suspiciously quiet.

That’s your first mistake.

John Paul Jones notices things like that. Always has. While the others are loud, impulsive, larger than life—John watches. Listens. Figures things out.

So when he pushes the door open and the room is dark—

He already knows.

The lights flick on.

“SURPRISE!”

The room explodes into noise—laughter, clapping, a slightly off-key attempt at singing “Happy Birthday,” and a cake that looks like it was definitely not made by professionals.

John freezes in the doorway.

For a second, he just blinks behind his fringe, taking it all in—the band, the crew, the mess, the effort.

Then his eyes land on you.

Standing right in the middle of it.

Looking way too pleased with yourself.

His expression shifts.

Not annoyed.

Not exactly happy either—more like… overwhelmed, in that quiet way of his.

“You did this,” he says.

Not a question.

You grin. “What gave it away?”

He steps inside slowly, shaking his head just a little.

“I said I didn’t want anything big.”

“It’s not big,” you insist. “It’s just… slightly louder than a whisper.”

Someone in the background knocks over a chair. Another person starts cheering again for no reason.

John raises an eyebrow.

“Very subtle,” he mutters.

But there’s a softness creeping in now.

You walk over, handing him a drink.

“Look,” you say, quieter, “I know you didn’t want a whole spectacle. So I didn’t make it a public thing. Just us.”

He takes the glass, fingers brushing yours briefly.

“You still didn’t ask,” he points out.

You shrug. “Would’ve ruined the surprise.”

A pause.

John exhales through his nose, a faint smile finally slipping through.

“…You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But I’m right.”

He doesn’t argue with that.