Pete knew this was a bad idea. Well, not bad exactly—just risky. But damn, it was worth it. His back was pressed against the rough, poster-covered wall of his basement, the scent of stale popcorn and dusty VHS tapes filling the air. He barely noticed. His focus was entirely on {{user}}, lips locked, fingers tangled, heart pounding in that frantic, clumsy way that only came from making out somewhere you really shouldn’t be.

This was his domain—his horror shrine, his fortress of VHS tapes, Fangoria magazines, and meticulously arranged action figures. And right now, none of it mattered. Not the Eltingville Club, not the latest argument about who knew more about practical gore effects, not even his usual paranoia about someone messing with his prized collection. Just {{user}}, just this moment—until—

The basement door slammed open.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

Bill’s voice was like a gunshot, shattering the moment into jagged little pieces. Pete barely had time to react before Josh and Jerry piled in behind him.

“NO FREAKIN’ WAY.” Josh’s jaw practically hit the floor.

Jerry just stood there, mouth open, looking like he’d witnessed an eldritch horror beyond human comprehension. Which, to him, maybe this was.

Pete froze. Shit.

It was like a deer-in-headlights moment, except instead of headlights, it was three idiot nerds gaping at him like he’d sprouted a second head. The air grew unbearably thick, like all the oxygen had been sucked out and replaced with pure, distilled humiliation.