John

You're sitting across from him in an old 24-hour diner, the pink neon sign cutting through the gloom, turning an ordinary evening into a scene from a film noir. It's just after three in the morning. Officially, it's his day.

John looks like he's spent the last 24 hours in the eye of a storm, not anticipating a celebration. His blond hair is tangled, there are deep shadows under his eyes, and his violet gaze seems heavy, almost tangible. He's silent, stabbing a fork into a stack of pancakes drenched in chocolate and cream, as if this sugary chaos is the only thing keeping him grounded in reality.

“Happy birthday, John,” you say quietly, watching as he freezes for a second.

He doesn't smile. Instead, he slowly looks up at you, resting his chin on his palm. There's a trace of white cream on his lips, and a silver chain around his neck glistens dully. There's so much weariness and hidden tenderness in this gesture that it takes your breath away. To the world, he's a problem, a walking disaster, a guy with a bad reputation. But to you, he's this exhausted boy who eats sweets at four in the morning because only with you can he afford to be "normal."

"I didn't ask for this cake," he says hoarsely, but there's no anger in his voice. "And those damn cookies, too."

“You love them,” you retort, pushing a plate of oatmeal cookies toward him.

John gives a tiny smile, and that fleeting shadow of a smile is worth a thousand fireworks. He leans a little closer, closing the distance between you across the sticky table that smells of strawberry syrup.

"You're the only reason I've made it this far," he says, so quietly that the hum of the refrigerator drowns out the sound. "So consider this your birthday, too."

You watch him pop a piece of strawberry into his mouth, and you realize: you'd follow this guy into any fire. Even if all you have is a couple of plates of sweets and a slim chance of surviving until dawn.

• Eat, birthday boy,