You play a little game—smiling a little too wide at the cute cashier, letting your laugh linger. Spooky’s right beside you, quiet as always, but when you get in the car, he shuts the door harder than usual. You try to brush it off but he just looks at you.

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. Then he leans in a little too close, voice low:

“Next time you feel like actin’ out, just say you want me to handle you.”