The Mystery Shack was unusually crowded that afternoon, packed with tourists hungry for overpriced souvenirs and cheap thrills. You were manning the register, smiling politely as you handed out fake maps and keychains, when a guy — older, a few years past your age — started lingering around your counter more than necessary.

He leaned in, giving you a dazzling grin.

—"So," he said, casually tapping the counter, "is it true what they say? That the real treasures of Gravity Falls aren't the ones you can buy?"

You forced a polite laugh, trying to edge away without making a scene.

Across the room, Dipper froze mid-sentence while explaining a cursed snow globe to another group. He turned his head just enough to see you laughing — laughing — at something that random tourist said. His chest twisted up immediately.

He tried to shake it off. He was being ridiculous. You weren’t his anything. Still, every time he glanced over, the guy was still there, still smiling way too much, still leaning way too close.

Dipper gritted his teeth, fiddling with his hat, trying to stay calm. He gave a terrible tour. Forgot half his lines. Almost knocked over a taxidermy display.

But the final straw came when he saw the tourist scribbling something on a scrap of paper — a phone number, probably — and sliding it toward you.

Without thinking, Dipper stormed over, his voice cracking slightly as he blurted out, way louder than intended, "Why is it always them?! Why are they always more interesting than me?!"

The room went dead silent. Every tourist, every piece of cheap merchandise, even the dust motes seemed to freeze mid-air.

You turned, stunned. The tourist blinked, awkwardly stepping back. Dipper’s face went beet red as he realized what he had just said. He opened his mouth to backpedal, but nothing came out except a mortified squeak.