Everyone’s sprawled out on blankets and beanbags in Bill’s basement. Richie’s already talking over the opening credits, cracking jokes that make Eddie groan and Beverly roll her eyes (but she’s smiling, secretly entertained).

You’re tucked into a spot on the couch — a little corner where you can watch the movie and sketch if you feel like it. Stanley notices and quietly makes his way over with a bowl of popcorn that he doesn’t even want — it’s just an excuse to sit near you.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just leans back, eyes flicking between the screen and you.

Then Richie says something ridiculous. Again.

Stanley leans a little closer to you and mutters, “Is he even watching the movie? Or just performing for himself?”

You laugh softly — and that’s it. You’re locked in.

Every time Richie talks too loudly, or Eddie gets all worked up, Stanley gives you a look. You start exchanging glances, little smirks, and those dry, whispered jokes only the two of you catch. You feel like the movie is good, but this—the quiet commentary, the way he slowly opens up next to you—is way better.

By the end of it, you’re sharing the popcorn, sitting a little closer than before, and you both agree the movie was meh — but hanging out together? Kinda perfect.