Salem chews thoughtfully. “Something not depressing. I already lived depressing.”
I nod. “Fair.” I lean back slightly. “Juno has a scary movie podcast, by the way.”
Salem’s brows lift. “She does?”
“Yep,” I say. “She watches slashers and breaks them down like she’s analyzing enemy tactics.”
Salem smiles. “That’s… very cool.”
“It is,” I agree. “And she said the new slasher film is good.”
Salem hesitates. “I don’t love scary movies.”
“You don’t have to,” I say quickly.
She studies me, then shrugs. “We can try it.”
I grin. “Okay. Slasher it is.”
That night, we make popcorn and settle on the couch. I keep the lights low but not off, because I’m not an idiot. Salem’s nervous system doesn’t need to be surprised by darkness right now. She sits curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket, and a popcorn bowl in her lap.
I take the other side, close enough that our knees almost touch.
The movie starts with that familiar horror setup: quiet street, ominous music, someone alone. Salem tries to be brave for the first twenty minutes, but I can feel her tension building. Her shoulders rise. Her fingers grip the blanket tighter. Halfwaythrough, the killer appears—mask, knife, heavy breathing in the soundtrack.
Salem’s popcorn stops moving. She goes still. Then the jump scare hits. Salem yelps and jerks so hard she spills popcorn everywhere. Her breath catches. She laughs at herself immediately, but her eyes are wide, and I see it.
I pause the movie.
Salem looks at me quickly, embarrassed. “I’m fine.”
I don’t argue. I just shift closer and open my arm. Salem hesitates for a fraction of a second. Then she scoots into me like she’s done it a hundred times, tucking her head against my shoulder. My arm wraps around her slowly, carefully. She fits perfectly against me, and I suddenly can no longer breathe.
Fuck.
Her breath stutters once, then eases.
I press my mouth lightly to her hair. “You don’t have to prove anything,” I murmur.
Salem’s voice is small. “I hate being scared.”
“I know,” I say.
She swallows. “Can we watch something else?”
“Yeah,” I say immediately. “We can watch cartoons. We can watch a baking show. We can watch paint dry.”
Salem snorts weakly. “Paint dry sounds thrilling.”
“I’ll narrate it,” I promise. “In a dramatic voice.”
That gets a real laugh out of her, and I feel it in my chest like relief.
I switch the movie to something lighter—some stupid action-comedy with explosions and jokes that don’t require emotional resilience. Salem stays pressed into my side. Her fingers curl lightly into my shirt like she’s anchoring herself. And as the minutes pass, I realize something I don’t say out loud: I like being her safe place.
I like… her. A lot. Too much. And there’s a part of me who would do anything to keep her with me forever. Even though I just met her.
It’s illogical, right?