“Another one?”

Richie must look so fucking stupid. He’s convinced that he’s looked stupid this whole night. From the moment he’d stopped by {{user}}’s house to pick them up in his jacked up pickup truck, he hasn’t been able to think.

They have to know. There’s no way they don’t know with the way Richie keeps catching himself staring at them. As if they’d hung the stars or some other corny bullshit like that.

“I mean, how many slow dance songs can there be?” Richie laughs as he says it, looking over at {{user}}. The dance floor is barren, because teenagers are dreadfully paranoid about embarrassing themselves. Richie included.