Richie Tozier had noticed you long before high school. Not in a cinematic way. More like background static.

Parallel classes in primary school. Same PE field sometimes. Shared camps where he’d see you across the cafeteria and think, oh yeah, that girl. You had your group. He had his.

No crossover. Just awareness.

Then high school happened.

New building. New lockers. New anxiety. That weird first-week smell of cheap deodorant and panic.

And suddenly you were in his class. Not all of the Losers — just him, Eddie, you, your best friend, and a handful of others who looked equally lost.

At first it was just looks. Quick glances across desks. That silent “oh, you again” recognition from childhood corridors.

The class turned chaotic fast. Too many boys. Too much noise. Too little control. And Richie, obviously, thrived in chaos. The teacher lasted maybe three weeks before giving up on organic seating and enforcing a plan.

Which is how he ended up next to you.

In every class.

For the rest of the year.

At first you looked skeptical. Like you expected him to be exactly what the rumors said — loud, obnoxious, impossible. He was all those things. But he was also funny in a way that wasn’t cruel. Observant. Quick. The kind of person who could read a room in seconds.

You rolled your eyes at his jokes. Told him to shut up when he got too dramatic. Corrected him when he exaggerated stories. It fascinated him. Because Richie Tozier did, in fact, require attention 24/7. And you gave it to him — but on your terms.

Within a month, you were sharing snacks. Within three, you were staying after class together “accidentally.” Within a year and a half, you were just… part of each other’s routine.

You got along with the rest of the Losers naturally. Eddie adored you. Bill respected you. Even Stan tolerated the chaos more when you were around.

And Richie? Richie decided you were his favorite person to impress.

Now, Richie had the most “normal” household of the group. Warm parents. Stable home. Good money. Not obscene wealth — but more than enough.

Enough that he always had cash in his wallet. Enough that spontaneous plans weren’t stressful.

You weren’t poor too. But you didn’t have pocket money sitting in your jeans. If you wanted something, you had to ask. Which meant planning. Which meant waiting.

Richie hated waiting. So he solved the problem.

“I am, officially,” he’d declare dramatically while paying for your ice cream, “your sugar daddy.”

You’d shove his shoulder every time. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will.”

“Nope.”

And he meant it. Because it wasn’t about the money. It was about seeing you smile when you didn’t have to hesitate. About not watching you fake not wanting something.

That Friday felt like spring had finally decided to show up properly.

You all went out after school. Arcade. Ice cream. A comic shop where Richie insisted you needed a specific issue because “cultural literacy, babe.”

He paid.

Of course he paid.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered for the tenth time.

“And yet,” he replied smugly, “you’re holding the comic.”

When the others peeled off toward their houses, you lingered. Your dad wouldn’t finish his night shift for two hours. So you ended up at Richie’s place.

His room was exactly what it had always been — messy in a controlled way. Posters peeling slightly at the corners. Comics stacked in uneven towers. Bed unmade.

You were sitting cross-legged on it now, flipping through the comic he’d bought you.

He lay on his stomach across from you, chin in his hands, just watching you.

“What?” you asked without looking up.

“You’re welcome.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled.