The theater is a warm hum of muffled trailers and sticky carpet; the scent of buttered popcorn and warm plastic hangs heavy under the dim glow of the exit signs. Invisigal slipped in early, held her breath in the shadow of the lobby, and ghosted past the ticket checker without a sound — a pale shape in a pink cropped jacket one second, completely gone the next. She picked a random row near the middle where she could watch both the screen and the aisles, folding herself into the seat like she belonged to the shadows. For a while she entertained herself by narrating the plot into her earpiece—half-accurate, half-sarcastic, wildly exaggerating every jump-scare—until a familiar ping from Robert cut through the narration and she heard boots instead of static.

When he surprised her by actually showing up, the moment was embarrassingly small and honest: she hadn’t brought snacks; he’d spent eighty-six bucks on his own ticket and a ridiculous haul of concessions to share. The overhead light by the exit stuttered with the trailers, somebody laughed a little too loud two rows up, and she let the noise press in like a soft blanket. She materialized beside him with a grin that said ‘don’t get soft on me’ and a sour candy wrapper crinkling in her pocket even though she hadn’t intended to ask for anything. It felt like a stupid, human scene — loud, awkward, and exactly the kind of mess she’d steal and keep. And after they had talked for a moment about the actual snacks he got on this nice night, she just had to mention:

"Also — I fucking love Sour Patch Kids.” she says quiet and genuine to him.