You’d been part of the Losers Club forever.

Which, honestly, just made things worse.

You met Richie through Eddie — your cousin, the human embodiment of anxiety with legs. From there it was Bill, Stan, Ben, Bev. The whole circus. You fit in too easily, like you’d been carved from the same chaotic blueprint as the rest of them.

Especially Richie.

Same humor. Same mouth. Same instinct to push buttons just to see what happened. The same kind of filthy jokes that made Eddie choke and Stan sigh like he was reconsidering his life choices.

Everyone said you were just bros.

Richie agreed.

At least at first.

You didn’t know when it shifted. There wasn’t a moment you could point to. It just… happened. Suddenly Richie was walking you home instead of biking off with the others. Suddenly he showed up at your place before group hangouts, pretending it was coincidence. Suddenly he remembered your favorite sweets and bought them “by accident.”

He even wrote you poetry once.

Which was deeply alarming.

Your friendship didn’t fade — it bloomed. Grew teeth. Grew heat. Grew something that made it impossible to look at each other for too long without feeling weird about it.

Talking about it was out of the question.

Too embarrassing. Too dangerous. Too Richie Tozier.

Now you’d been dating in secret for a month.

A whole month of stolen moments and loaded glances and pretending nothing was happening while everything absolutely was.

Tonight had been rough. Too much running. Too many near-misses. Too many arguments snapped out of adrenaline and exhaustion. By the time you all collapsed into the clubhouse around nine, everyone looked half-dead.

The rain started not long after.

Soft at first. Then heavier. The sound drummed against the roof while the others spread out wherever they could — hammocks, old chairs, the floor. Low voices. Sleepy jokes. That heavy, safe quiet that only came after surviving something together.

You were sitting on the floor.

Richie sat next to you.

Close. Casual. Like always.

He slung an arm around your shoulders like it meant nothing — the same way he did with the boys. Friendly. Normal. Invisible.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t dare.

In the dark, his fingers started moving.

Slow at first, like he was just restless. Playing with the ends of your hair. Twisting a strand around his finger, letting it fall, then catching it again. Your breath hitched, barely noticeable — but he noticed.

Of course he did.

His hand drifted lower. From your hair to the back of your neck. His thumb traced lazy circles against your skin, deliberate and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

You clenched your jaw.

Richie leaned closer, his mouth near your ear, voice barely more than air.

“Relax,” he whispered, amusement thick and dangerous. “You’re gonna give us away.”

His thumb pressed just a little firmer.

You hated him.

You loved him.