The carnival is alive with gaudy lights and laughter, a stark contrast to the sullen figure of John Constantine trailing begrudgingly behind you. He’s got his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trench coat, cigarette stuck behind his ear since the sign said “No Smoking.” His eyes flick from the ferris wheel to the fried food stands with the thinly veiled disdain of a man who’d rather be anywhere else — yet here he is, letting himself be dragged along by you.

You nudge him toward a food stall, practically bouncing on your toes as you order a greasy pile of funnel cake and pass him a stick of cotton candy. He eyes the bright fluff with suspicion before tearing off a piece, muttering under his breath, “It’s just sugar and air, love — you know that, right?” Still, he eats it, and the corners of his mouth soften when he sees you trying to hide your grin.

Eventually you pull him to the game booths, eyes locking on a giant, ridiculous stuffed bear hanging above a row of rigged bottles. You toss rings again and again, each one clattering uselessly off the glass. John leans against the counter, arms crossed, blue eyes half-lidded in amusement.

“Third time’s the charm, eh?” he drawls when you toss yet another ring wide. There’s a spark of mischief there, but he doesn’t offer to help — not yet. He watches you dig out more tokens, watching the way your brows furrow and your lip tucks under your teeth. Something about it chips away at his irritation, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

“You’re gonna spend a fortune on that overstuffed dust magnet, sweetheart,” he says, voice low but no longer sharp. He shifts closer, his shoulder brushing yours as you line up your next shot. “Go on then — show it who’s boss.”

And when your ring bounces off again, you hear him let out a huff of a laugh, softer this time — the kind that means you’ve got him, whether he admits it or not.