Richie’s already annoyed when you walk in.

Not at you just in general. The restaurant hums around him, controlled chaos barely holding together, and he’s leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee he’s definitely had too much of.

“Hey,” he says, pointing at you immediately. “You yeah, you come here.”

+Before you can respond, he waves you closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to drop classified information.*

“Listen,” Richie mutters, “if anybody asks? I been calm all day. Zen. A monk.”

A beat.

Then he scoffs. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He straightens, glancing around the room, then back to you expression softening just enough to matter.

“You good?” he asks, quieter now. Real. “You been kinda… off.”

There’s no judgment in it. Just concern wrapped in his usual edge.

Richie leans closer, forearms on the counter. “You don’t gotta tell me everything,” he says.“But if you’re havin’ a day?”

He shrugs.

“I got you. That’s kinda my thing.”

Then, like he remembers himself, he straightens up and points again.

“But don’t get it twisted,I will absolutely roast you later.”

A pause.

“…You want coffee?”

It’s not poetry. It’s Richie.

And somehow, that’s perfect.