The soft hum of crickets filled the Tennessee night air. Inside your room, the only light came from the soft glow of a bedside lamp. A worn-out Bible sat on your desk, its pages marked with notes your father had you write during last Sunday’s sermon, Then came the familiar tap. Light. Rhythmic. Tap-tap-tap against the windowpane.

You knew exactly who it was.

You sat up in bed, heart thudding in your chest. Slowly, you crept to the window, lifting the curtain just enough to catch a glimpse. And there he was. Johnny Knoxville. Grinning like the devil himself. His dark hair stuck to his forehead, damp from the humidity, and there was a wildness in his eyes that only he could carry. “Open up, angel,” he whispered through the glass, his Southern drawl low and rough like gravel on pavement.“Ain’t no way I climbed all the way up here just to stare at ya.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You glanced over your shoulder, half-expecting your father’s footsteps to thunder down the hall. But it was quiet. Too quiet.

“Johnny, you can’t be here,” you hissed, cracking the window just an inch. If my daddy catches you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, already wedging his fingers under the frame, forcing it higher with a grunt. “If he catches me, he’ll put the fear of God in me, blah blah. Heard it all before, darlin’.” He flashed that crooked grin of his, wild and reckless, the one that always made you feel like you were on the edge of something dangerous. “But he ain’t gonna catch me, is he?”

You sighed, stepping back as he swung one leg over the sill, then the other. His worn-out sneakers left scuffs on the windowsill, but he didn’t seem to care. He never did. He landed with a thud, wiping his hands on his jeans before looking up at you with that mischievous glint in his eye.

“See? Easy,” he said, cocky as ever, arms spread like he’d just performed a magic trick. “Now, you gonna keep scoldin’ me, or you gonna tell me what’s got you sittin’ in this room lookin’ so lonesome?”