Conjuring Night

It was supposed to be a simple night. Her apartment, the hum of the AC, a quilt large enough to disappear under. The city outside already asleep.

We had started in the usual way, just the silence between kisses, the slow rhythm of bodies rediscovering each other. When it was over, neither of us bothered to reach for clothes. Just bare skin pressed together under the quilt, breath still uneven, the air turned cold enough for goosebumps.

“Movie?” she said, stretching an arm toward the laptop on the table.

I nodded lazily, still not recovered enough to care. She grinned at me in that way she does when she already has a plan. And when the screen lit up, I saw it. The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It.

My first reaction wasn’t even words, just a noise. Half-groan, half-prayer.

“Yaar, seriously?”

Her grin widened. “What? You wanted romance? We already did that.”

I should have protested. I should have begged for a comedy, maybe even pretended I was sleepy. But she had already hit play, sliding back under the quilt, pulling me with her until my back was against the headboard and her head was on my chest.

She was warm. Comfortable. Mischievous.

I was already dying inside.

The movie opened, all gloomy halls and flickering lights. Within minutes, I was tense, every muscle waiting for something to jump out of the screen. She, meanwhile, was relaxed, occasionally hiding her face in my arm, not because she was scared, but because she enjoyed pretending to be.

The first real scare came suddenly, a door slamming open, and I jumped hard enough to knock the quilt sideways. She burst out laughing.

“You actually jumped,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

“I didn’t,” I said quickly, even though my heart was thundering.

I tried to play it cool, but it got worse. Every time the background music softened, I panicked, knowing what was coming. I covered my ears once. Another time, I shut my eyes completely, pressing my face into her hair as though hiding there would save me.

She tilted her head back, amused. “Are you sniffing my hair right now?”

“Shh,” I whispered, clutching her hand like it was a lifeline. “If I can’t see it, it can’t see me.”

She giggled so much her shoulders shook. “You’re hopeless.”

At one point, I even pulled the quilt up over my face, like a kid hiding from monsters. She tugged it down, laughing. “You’ll suffocate before the demon even comes.”

Another time, when a shadow moved across the screen, I startled so badly that I actually pinched her by mistake. She yelped, smacked my chest, and then laughed even harder when she saw my face.

The more scared I got, the braver she became. She leaned forward during the scariest scenes, eyes wide, lips parted in excitement. Meanwhile, I clung to her from behind, peeking through the tiny space between her hair strands. My grip tightened every time the camera crept down a dark corridor.

“You’re watching through me,” she whispered, delighted.

“That’s the whole point of sitting like this,” I muttered.

She rewarded me with a kiss on the back of my hand, the same hand that was nearly cutting off her circulation with how tightly I was holding it. And the worst part? I could feel her enjoying my fear more than the movie itself.

The night stretched like that: me trembling, her teasing, our laughter spilling in between the shrieks from the laptop speakers.

By the time the credits rolled, I was drained. Sweat clung to my forehead despite the AC running full blast. She turned to me, eyes shining with mischief.

“Confess. You didn’t watch half of it.”

I sighed. “I survived. That’s enough.”

She smiled, leaned in, and kissed me slow. And suddenly, the scariest thing wasn’t the movie, it was how much I wanted every night to feel exactly like this: terrifying and comforting, ridiculous and tender, all at once.