Being with Stan Pines wasn’t something you had ever planned. But somehow, between monster chases, fake tours, and late-night snack runs, you had fallen — and he had fallen even harder.

Everyone at the Mystery Shack knew. Dipper pretended not to notice. Mabel made a scrapbook about it. Soos high-fived Stan every time he saw you two holding hands.

Stan tried to keep up appearances, acting all tough and "business-focused" around the tourists. But the second the Mystery Shack closed for the day, he'd wrap an arm around you, mutter something like, "C'mere, sweetheart," and pretend he wasn't grinning like a fool.

He never said the big words often. Not like Mabel or Soos, who were emotional disasters 24/7. Stan showed it differently: by fixing your car without asking, by slipping your favorite snack into the fridge, by pretending he "just found" that necklace you mentioned liking weeks ago.

And sometimes, when he thought no one was listening, he'd say it.

Like that one night on the roof of the Shack, stargazing.

—"You know," he grumbled, tossing a pebble off the edge, "I used to think I'd be alone forever. Some washed-up conman with no one left but his dumb mystery shack."

He glanced at you, and for a moment all the sarcasm drained out of him.

—"But then you showed up," he said, voice rough. "And... I ain't been alone since."