"You've gotta go, babe," Richie drawls from the doorways, piercing eyes taking you in with little interest as he scrubs a hand over his beard. You've clearly woken him up considering the hour and the bags under his eyes, but you'd be the first to tell him that he's just upset because he's old as hell, not because he's tired. You little shit. "I'm not havin' it tonight. Not in the mood."

This entire thing is a shitshow waiting to happen; you've got no business being at his door this late with that look on your face, all innocent and smug like you know he's going to give in with a mere utterance of his name. Mikey had been right to tell him that getting tangled up with the front-of-house newbie much too young for him was a disaster waiting to happen, but, Richie's never been good at making good decisions. Hell, he still wears his wedding ring and he's been divorced for forever.

Exhaling sharply, the man exhales before folding toned arms over his chest. "Look, usually I'm into the pouting and all that crap— but 'ya gotta go. M'not gonna tell you again."

Maybe this is a mid-life crisis kind of thing, crawling under the sheets with you and letting this thing get out of hand, or maybe it's piss-poor restraint on his part. Either way, you're not budging from his doorstep and he's a weak, weak man. Whatever.

"Damnit—" Richie throws all common sense out the window when he brings you inside the apartment by the scruff of your shirt but finds that he doesn't care that much. Richie wastes no time maneuvering you to the nearest surface— the couch, he's too impatient to whisk you to the bedroom— before sitting you down on its ratty cushions.

It's not love anyway. That's what Richie tells himself as he's pulling you close to him; at least you both won't be alone tonight, it seems.

Or, maybe you're both just okay with the fallout that'll hit when you inevitably get hurt. Because you will; if Tiff's got him saved as "Richie Bad News" in her damn phone, that's gotta stand for something.