#pontius

Your stylist tugged at the hem of your glittering dress for the fifth time in two minutes.

“Don’t move. Just don’t—ah, okay, perfect,” she muttered.

“Perfect until I breathe,” you said under your breath, forcing a smile when someone with a clipboard rushed past and wished you good luck.

You’d already been interviewed, photographed, and shuffled on stage to present an award, and you were just starting to feel the exhaustion settle in. As you stepped off the side of the stage, finally released from the bright lights, you exhaled in relief—only to nearly slam into someone.

“Whoa there, darlin’. Careful,” a warm Southern drawl said.

You looked up. Johnny Knoxville stood in front of you, tuxedo slightly crooked, bowtie loose, hair messy like he’d just wrestled with it in a bathroom mirror. That unmistakable smirk tugged at his lips.

“Sorry!” you blurted, pressing a hand to your chest. “Didn’t mean to—”

“—knock me flat on my ass?” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Nah, would’ve made headlines. ‘Popstar body-slams Jackass at VMAs.’ I’d let you take the credit.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. A real laugh, not the polite one you gave interviewers.

Johnny’s grin widened. “Knew I’d get you.”

“You presenting tonight?” you asked, still catching your breath.

“Yeah. They’re lettin’ me hand out a trophy. Guess someone out there thought I could keep a straight face in a tux long enough not to get banned from the building.” He leaned closer, stage lights reflecting in his eyes. “So far, so good.”

Before you could answer, someone with a headset called him toward the stage. Johnny pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, scribbled his number on the back of your program, and pressed it into your hand.

“Call me sometime,” he said casually, grin crooked. “Unless you’re too famous for dumbasses like me.”

Your lips curved. “I’ll think about it.”

And then he was gone, striding toward the stage like he hadn’t just flipped your stomach upside down.

A week later, you found yourself holding the program in your dressing room, tracing his messy scrawl with your thumb. You had no idea why you hadn’t thrown it away—maybe because you’d been replaying his grin in your head all week.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you dialed.

It rang twice before he picked up.

“Well, well,” Johnny drawled. “Thought you forgot about me.”

You smirked against the phone. “Guess I like dumbasses after all.”

He laughed, that unfiltered, rough laugh you’d only heard on TV. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. You busy tonight?”

You blinked. “Tonight?”

“Yeah. Unless you got a bodyguard schedule I need to book three weeks in advance. In which case…” he trailed off, pretending to groan.

You bit back a laugh. “Where would you even take me?”

Johnny paused for dramatic effect. “Best burger joint on Sunset. No paparazzi. No velvet ropes. Just grease, onion rings, and a jukebox that eats quarters like it’s starvin’.”

Your lips curved. It was so different from the fancy restaurants you were always dragged to.

“Alright. Pick me up at eight.”

-

The burger joint wasn’t what you expected. Neon signs buzzed overhead, the booths were red vinyl, and the jukebox in the corner was blasting The Strokes.

Johnny looked perfectly at home as he slid into the booth across from you, sleeves of his jacket rolled up, tie long abandoned. He grabbed the ketchup bottle and smacked the bottom with exaggerated force.

“See, this is how you know it’s a quality place,” he said. “The ketchup fights back.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” he said earnestly, eyes twinkling.

As you ate, he launched into stories about the Jackass crew. You found yourself laughing so hard your stomach hurt, especially when he mimicked Bam’s high-pitched complaints or Steve-O’s unhinged laugh.

“Okay, but why would you ever volunteer to get shot with a beanbag gun?” you asked, wiping tears from your eyes.

“Because it sounded like a good idea at the time,” he said with a shrug. “Most things do, right up until they don’t.”

You shook your head, still smiling. He was reckless, sure—but there was something sharper beneath it, a self-awareness that kept peeking through his jokes.

At one point, you caught him staring at you with that crooked grin.

“What?” you asked, half-laughing.

Johnny leaned back, stretching one arm across the booth. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ I might’ve gotten real lucky runnin’ into you last week.”

Your cheeks heated, and you ducked your head. “You’re smooth, Knoxville.”

“Nah,” he said, voice softer now. “Just honest.”

-

The night ended too soon. He walked you to your car, the neon diner sign buzzing behind you, the street strangely quiet.

Johnny shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly less cocky. “So… I had a good time tonight. Didn’t bore you too much, did I?”

You shook your head. “Not at all. Honestly, it was the most normal fun I’ve had in a while.”

Relief flickered across his face. Then, without warning, he leaned down and kissed you. Just a steady, warm kiss—not rough, not showy. The kind that left you a little breathless.

When he pulled back, that grin was back. “Well. Guess I gotta figure out a second date, huh?”

You smiled, tucking your keys into your purse. “Yeah. Guess you do.”