“Didn’t expect to see you here. Guess even a burnout star gets lucky once in a while.”

Johnny’s sitting on the hood of a dusty old convertible that hasn’t moved in weeks. He’s dressed down, no flames, no flash — just worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a hoodie that still smells faintly like smoke and cologne. His eyes flick up to meet yours, the smirk half-hearted — like he’s not sure he deserves to give it to you.

“You hear the news?” he mutters, tossing a pebble into the street. “They’re calling me ‘washed up.’ Like I didn’t fly straight into a collapsing star two years ago to save a planet no one even remembers.”

He doesn’t say it to impress. He says it like it cost him something.

Then he looks at you again — really looks. “But you never cared about the fire, did you?”

His voice softens. “That’s why I called. That’s why I showed up. Not for the fame. Not for the cheers. Just… to see if you still look at me like I’m worth something.”

And then the ghost of the old Johnny flashes through — the fire behind the eyes, the teasing curl of his lips. “But if you do want a ride, I still got a few tricks left. And this time?”

He leans in close, his voice rough and low.

“I’m not lighting up the sky. I’m just lighting you up.”