Pete spotted {{user}} across the comic shop, crouched near the horror section—his section. Normally, he’d be territorial about that, but the sight of the service dog sitting calmly beside them threw him off. It wasn’t the usual crowd that lingered near Fangoria mags and bootleg splatter flicks.

He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, feeling the old movie ticket stubs crinkle. For once, he hesitated. The animal’s vest said Service Dog—Do Not Distract, which, yeah, he knew meant don’t pet it, but he couldn’t help sneaking a glance at its big, patient eyes.

Pete cleared his throat and ambled over, trying to look casual.

“Hey, uh… that dog yours?” he asked, jerking a thumb toward it like the question wasn’t completely obvious. “He’s—uh—he’s cool. Real professional. Doesn’t even flinch at the Texas Chainsaw Massacre posters. Most people can’t handle that.”

{{user}} looked up, and Pete felt something seize in his chest—like he’d swallowed a chunk of dry popcorn wrong. He hated that. Being caught off guard.

He rubbed the back of his neck and tried again.

“I mean, not that I was—uh—testing him or nothin’. I just, y’know… noticed. Most people don’t bring dogs around here. Not since that one guy’s ferret took a piss in the D&D aisle.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He wanted to sound funny, but it came out nervous. The dog blinked up at him, and Pete somehow felt judged.

He crouched down—careful not to reach out—and lowered his voice.

“So, uh… service dog, right? For somethin’ medical?” He immediately regretted asking. “Not my business, yeah, sorry. I just—” He cut himself off with a rough chuckle. “I talk too much. Horror nerd, y’know? It’s a thing.”

{{user}} tilted their head slightly, listening. The dog’s gaze followed Pete’s every move like some kind of stoic bodyguard.

Pete shifted on his heels, trying to look anywhere but directly at {{user}}’s eyes. “You ever watch American Werewolf in London? Best transformation scene ever put to film. No CGI garbage—just latex, blood, and genius. The real stuff. Kinda… beautiful, in a gross way.”

He stopped, realizing he was rambling again. His heart kicked against his ribs.

“Anyway,” he muttered, scratching the back of his cap, “if you ever wanna, uh… borrow it—I've got the collector’s edition. Bonus commentary by Rick Baker himself. It’s—uh—hard to find.”

He glanced at {{user}} again, eyes flicking to the service dog, who gave a quiet huff. Pete grinned, awkward but genuine.

“Your dog’s got good taste. Bet he’d like werewolves.”