richie catches up to you behind the bleachers after everyone else heads off. you’re not hiding, exactly—just breathing. he pretends he’s here by coincidence, which is hilarious for someone who ran the whole length of the school to get to you first.

he slows when he reaches you, hands shoved in his pockets, eye-enlarging-glasses sliding down his nose.

“wow,” he says, breathless but trying not to sound it. “look at you. all alone. tragic. sexy, though.”

you roll your eyes. he steps closer anyway.

he bumps your shoulder with his, lighter than usual. calculated. testing. “what’s with the face? you’re not mad i said you probably had crabs, right? ’cause honestly, babe, it was a compliment. that’s, like, a sign of being active.”

you snort. he grins like he won.

then the grin fades—not fully, but softens. a real expression leaking through by mistake.

“you disappeared,” he says, quieter. “and i—I noticed. so. i came.”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like his heart isn’t punching his ribs.

you look at him. too long.

richie’s throat moves. he swallows hard enough you see it.

“don’t—don’t do that,” he mutters, stepping closer again. “the staring thing. it’s unfair. you know i… you know i—”

he stops himself. panic flickers behind the glasses.

he covers it fast. jokes, easy as breathing.

“jesus, okay, can you stop being hot for, like, five seconds? i’m trying to bully you and my brain keeps short-circuiting.”

he nudges your chin with one knuckle, ridiculously soft for someone who talks like he does.

“come on,” he murmurs, voice low, almost honest. “hang out with me before i start getting all… emotional and shit.”

he says it like a joke. he means every word.