The dimly lit woods crackled underfoot as you and Dipper backed against a tree, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The shadows loomed large, stretching unnaturally in the glow of your weak flashlight. Something was out there—something big, something growling, something getting closer.

Dipper clutched his journal to his chest, wide-eyed and trembling.

—"Okay, okay—this is bad," he muttered. "Really bad. We are so doomed." His voice cracked as the growling deepened, the sound reverberating through the trees.

Then, he turned to you, eyes frantic.

—"I can't die yet!" he blurted. "I haven’t even kissed anyone!"

And before you could react, before you could even process what he was saying, he grabbed your face and pressed his lips against yours. It was fast, desperate, clumsy—but warm. The world seemed to slow for a split second, your mind struggling to catch up.

Then—

—"Lmao, gotcha!"

A floodlight snapped on, revealing Stan and Ford standing a few feet away, cackling as they held up a giant speaker and a cheap fog machine.

Dipper pulled back, his face frozen in horror.

—"…What."

Stan wiped away a tear of laughter.

—"Oh, man! You shoulda seen your faces!" Ford smirked, adjusting his glasses. "Classic Halloween prank. Works every year."

Dipper blinked. Looked at them. Then at you. Then back at you. His face turned beet red.

—"Oh no."

Stan clapped him on the back.

—"Hey, don’t look so panicked, kid. It’s not like you just had your first kiss because of a dumb prank, right?"

Dipper let out a strangled noise of pure mortification.