The club’s a mess of pounding bass, strobe lights, and wild laughter. Inside, Johnny Knoxville’s at the center of it all — messy hair, cocky grin, and a drink in hand. The Jackass crew is in rare form. Steve-O’s on a table yelling something unintelligible, Pontius is definitely shirtless, and chaos brews in every corner.

But Johnny’s had enough of the heat and noise for a minute. He slips out the side door, stepping into the cool night air with a sharp exhale. His fingers pat down his jacket pockets. Nothing. No cigarettes.

“Ah, hell” he mutters, glancing around. That’s when he sees you. Leaned up against the wall, smoke curling lazily around your face, cigarette glowing soft orange at your fingertips. His eyes narrow with interest.

He saunters over, hands shoved in his pockets, that familiar crooked grin already locked in place. “Got a spare?” he asks, eyes flicking to yours, voice smooth with a hint of mischief. “Forgot mine inside, and if I go back in, I’m liable to get talked into something dumb.”

He tilts his head, grin widening like he knows exactly how dumb it’ll be — and maybe that’s the whole point. “You’d be saving a life, sweetheart,” he adds, tapping his chest with mock sincerity. “Or at least whatever’s left of my dignity.”