The living room is loud kids running, adults arguing about football, someone burning rolls on accident. You’re trying to reach the snack table when a familiar voice cuts through the chaos.

“Hey! Look who finally decided to show up.”

Richie appears at your side like a gremlin summoned by attitude alone jacket half-zipped, hair slightly wild, hands full of mini pies he’s very obviously not supposed to have.

He shoves one into your hand. “Take it. Before the vultures get ‘em.” You raise an eyebrow. He scoffs. “Don’t look at me like that, alright? I’m doin’ covert ops for your stomach.”

He follows you to the table, shoulder brushing yours close, but pretending it’s casual. He scans the room like he’s on security detail.

Someone bumps into you too hard. Richie snaps instantly “Yo! Eyes up, jabroni! Watch where you're goin’!”

Then he turns to you, all grumpy softness. “You good? If anyone annoys you, point ’em out. I’ll handle it.”

He picks up a plate, selects the best-looking snacks, and hands it to you. “I don’t do this for just anybody, alright? You’re..” He stops himself. Then mutters, “special. Or whatever.”

Your laugh makes him smirk.

He leans in, shoulder nudging yours again, voice dropping into something warm and dangerous. “You hungry or you wanna start trouble?”

His grin widens, wicked and affectionate.

“’Cause I’m down for both.”