The dim red glow of the motel sign seeped through the curtains, casting uneven light across the room. You dropped your duffel on the bed closest to the window, jaw tight. It smelled like stale smoke and old carpet — fitting, really.

Behind you, the door clicked shut, followed by heavy footsteps. You didn’t have to turn around. His presence was already too loud.

“Cozy,” Johnny drawled with sarcasm, dropping his bag on the other bed with a loud thud. “Bet you’re just thrilled to be bunkin’ with me.”

You turned, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He was sprawled out like he’d been there for hours, hands behind his head, grin sharp as ever.

“Thrilled doesn’t even cover it, Knoxville,” you muttered. “This trip just keeps getting better.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he shot back, tilting his head toward you. “Most people would kill to share a room with me.”

“Lucky me,” you deadpanned, tossing your jacket over a chair. “Unlike them, I’m not here for your charm or your bullsh—”

“Careful,” he cut in, wagging a finger. “Wouldn’t wanna hurt my feelings.”

You snorted. “Please. You’d need feelings first.”

Johnny sat up, grin shifting into something slower, sharper. “You think you got me figured out, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said flatly. “An attention-starved idiot who’ll do anything for a laugh.”

He clutched his chest like he’d been shot, falling back on the bed with a dramatic groan. “Ah, brutal! Right in the heart!” he gasped. “If I knew you’d be this mean, I would’ve bunked with Steve-O.”

“Trust me,” you muttered, yanking back the covers on your bed, “he’d have better odds of surviving the night.”

Johnny’s laugh was loud and careless, like the whole thing was just a joke. And maybe to him, it was.

This was going to be a disaster.