Richie Tozier had never been anyone’s idea of boyfriend material. Loud, reckless, always with a joke one sentence away from a punch—he was the last person anyone expected to end up in a relationship.

Yet here he was.

Dating.

And not just anyone—someone from their own group. {{user}}.

It hadn’t started that way. She’d been new to Derry, fresh blood for Henry Bowers and his gang. They would’ve cornered her worse behind the school if the Losers hadn’t stepped in. One second she was trapped, the next she was staring at a group of kids with rocks in their hands and words sharper than anything she’d ever heard.

That was years ago.

She’d seen what they’d seen. Pennywise. The sewers. The red balloons. The fear that never really left. And after that, there was no going back.

Somewhere between running for their lives and hiding in the Barrens, Richie—the trashmouth who couldn’t go five minutes without swearing—changed.

Not all at once. Not in ways anyone could easily point out. But enough to notice.

Fewer dirty jokes. Softer sarcasm. When she was around, his voice dropped just slightly, as if he didn’t want to scare her off.

They’d catch him watching her sometimes. Not with his usual smirk—something else entirely.

Affection.

By the time they killed the clown, it was impossible to miss. Richie’s mouth got ahead of him, as always, but instead of an insult came a confession. A rambling, messy, cuss-filled one that sounded like: “I like you, okay? Like—like you. Goddammit, I suck at this.”

Somehow, she’d smiled. And said yes.

Now, two years later, Richie Tozier—the kid who used to swear more than he breathed—sat in her basement, long legs stretched out, head tipped back against the bed. Except he wasn’t exactly the same.

Puberty had hit him hard.

He was taller now. Broader. He’d convinced his mom to finally let him ditch the glasses for contacts, and his eyes—sharp hazel flecked with green—were clearer than anyone remembered.

But here, down in this basement, he was still Richie.

The space wasn’t just hers anymore.

Sure, technically it was—bed pushed to the wall, books stacked neatly—but everything else screamed them.

Polaroids covered the wood paneling: seven kids crammed together, grinning, messy-haired, arms linked. Posters layered the walls like memories. A secondhand couch, a faded rug, a humming lamp that glowed softly in the corner.

The Losers had built this place with her. Mike brought the lamp, Bev painted a mural, Ben dragged the couch, Stan added the rug, Bill muttered “careful” with every step, Eddie disinfected it all—twice.

And Richie?

He stayed.

Whenever his own house felt too loud, too cold, or just too empty, he came here.

Tonight was no different.

The house above was silent. Her parents were gone—like usual—leaving the two of them alone in a space that felt safer than anywhere else in Derry.

Richie reached for a cassette, slid it into the player, and let soft, static-laced music spill through the room.

His gaze drifted across everything: her sweater tossed over a chair, a stack of well-read comics, a half-finished deck of cards waiting on the table.

For someone who’d never really had a place that felt like home, this basement came close.

He raked a hand through his hair, exhaled, and let himself relax fully for once.

Because somehow—against every odd in a town full of monsters and missing posters—he’d found something good.

Someone good.

And Richie Tozier wasn’t planning on letting it go.