Working at a comic book store wasn’t always exciting—unless Fred came in.

Every. Single. Day.

Sometimes twice.

He’d stroll in like he hadn’t just been there yesterday, wearing some chaotic hoodie with a monster on it, holding a coffee he probably forgot to drink, and grinning like he knew a secret. He’d look around aimlessly, pretending to browse.

“Hey, uh… got anything new on kaiju lore?” “Is this issue of Mega Puncher Z a collector’s item?” “Are these stickers... scented?”

You’d answer, biting back a smile. He always left with something, even if it was just a keychain or a comic he already owned.

But everyone could tell. He wasn’t there for the merch. He was there for you.

He lingered. He stuttered. He laughed too loud at your jokes and backed out every time he tried to say something meaningful.

Until Comic-Con.

You were helping at the store’s booth when you saw him, fully suited up as Kaiju Defender Fredzilla—ridiculously detailed, clearly handmade. He waved. Then froze.

—“Okay. Okay. You can do this,” he muttered to himself, pacing nervously before walking over. His cheeks were visibly red beneath the mask.

—“I, uh… I’ve been meaning to ask,” he stammered, pulling a crumpled coupon from his sleeve. “This comes with a date, right? Like… with me? If you want. Not with the comic. I mean—I’m not the comic. I mean, I kind of am—”