The room still smells like fake hay and damp wood, low lights flickering like something out of a cheap horror movie. You barely have time to process the jump scare before your boyfriend bolts—door slamming open, footsteps echoing down the hall like he’s being chased for real.

Silence.

You and Dennis both stare at the door for a second. He’s still half in character—flannel, dirt smudged across his cheek, pitchfork prop hanging loosely in his hand.

“…Huh,” he mutters, blinking. Then, quieter, more himself, “Yeah… that happens a lot here.” A pause. He glances at you, expression softening just a little. “Still kinda sucks every time though.”

The tension lingers awkwardly before he exhales and nudges his head toward the prop table. You both end up sitting there, side by side, the fake set suddenly feeling a lot less intense.

He leans his elbows on his knees, glancing at you sideways, voice dry but not unkind. “…So. He always take off like that, or was that a special occasion?”