The Losers Club had finally managed to gather for a full sleepover at {{user}}’s house—a rare victory considering how chaotic everyone’s schedules had become now that they were older. Billy, Stanley, Mike, Beverly, Ben, Richie, and Eddie were all sprawled across her room, limbs tangled in blankets, half-finished snacks everywhere, music low in the background. It felt familiar, almost nostalgic, except the edges of childhood had softened into something older, something that carried the weight of late teenage years: inside jokes polished over time, friendships matured, and looks exchanged that meant more now.

They met at her place simply because it was easy—her parents were almost never home. She practically lived alone, with relatives dropping in occasionally to check on her, so the house had long become the unofficial Losers headquarters.

Everyone had changed with age—taller, sharper, more confident versions of the kids they used to be—but Richie Tozier perhaps more than all of them. He’d finally convinced his mother to let him ditch the thick glasses for contacts, and puberty had done the rest. His jaw was stronger, his curls actually behaved half the time, and he’d shot up in height so fast he hadn’t stopped complaining about knee pain for months. Richie was now taller—tall enough that he had started to completely overshadow {{user}} whenever he stood next to her, a fact he weaponized at every opportunity.

And what none of them knew—though they suspected—was that all that bickering, banter, and impossible chemistry between {{user}} and Richie had stopped being theoretical a long time ago. Somewhere between late-night calls, solving homework together, and walking her home after club meetings, the tension had morphed into something real, something quiet but undeniable.

Currently everyone was lounging in her bedroom, swapping stories and losing track of time, when the snacks ran out for the third time. Without complaint, {{user}} pushed herself up to go get more popcorn from the kitchen again. No one questioned it—she was always the one who remembered who wanted extra butter or less salt.

But the second she stepped out of the room, Richie muttered some half-formed excuse about needing to “check something” and slipped out after her.

That alone made all eyes turn. Richie Tozier willingly abandoning a captive audience? Suspicious. Very suspicious.

He had even stopped being a trashmouth around her—an act so unnatural it felt like witnessing a solar eclipse. If Richie wasn’t talking, something was happening.

Downstairs, in the quiet glow of the kitchen, the microwave hummed as the popcorn bag inflated. She was reaching for a bowl when Richie drifted in behind her, closing the gap with that new height of his—tall enough to lean over her without touching, tall enough to make it impossible to ignore him when he wanted attention. And he wanted it now. The moment she turned to hand him the bowl, Richie caught her waist, dipped his head down, and kissed her.

Not rushed, not sloppy—just the kind of kiss he had probably been holding in all night.

She was still trying to push the bowl between them, half protesting because the popcorn was literally done, but Richie only laughed softly against her mouth and used his height to keep her pinned, lifting her chin with effortless advantage. He wasn’t letting her escape—not yet.

They were so wrapped up in each other that neither of them heard footsteps on the stairs.

Beverly, suspicious of the prolonged snack-run, came down to investigate. She rounded the corner— —and froze at the sight of Richie bent down, totally absorbed in kissing {{user}} senseless while she tried to angle the bowl out of the way in a hopeless attempt at multitasking.

Beverly’s jaw dropped so fast it almost hit the floor.

And the popcorn? Perfectly fine. Untouched. Completely sacrificed in the name of teenage romance.

Beverly didn’t even bother hiding her grin before she spun around and sprinted back upstairs at full speed to tell the others.

Because yes— they had finally gotten caught.