Richie Tozier had known you forever.

Like, forever forever. Family barbecues. Sitting on opposite ends of ugly couches while your parents talked too loud. Inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else. You were wired the same way—fast mouths, sharp humor, zero filter—except you had this annoying habit of being smarter than him, which Richie pretended didn’t bother him but absolutely did.

When the Losers’ Club formed, you were already part of his world. It just intensified everything. Suddenly he saw you every day. Heard you laugh every day. Learned exactly how close he could sit before it felt… different.

That realization made him insufferable.

So when Richie showed up at your house one hot, dull summer afternoon and announced, “Get dressed, gorgeous, we’re going to the movies,” it wasn’t a question. You barely had time to grab your bag before he was already halfway out the door, sunglasses on like he was some kind of discount action hero.

The movie was awful. Cheap horror, bad acting, predictable jumpscares.

Perfect.

You sat in the back row—Richie insisted, of course—his long legs stretched out, arm slung lazily across the back of your seat like he wasn’t fully aware of exactly how close he was to you.

He didn’t shut up. Not once.

Every character had a voice. Every dramatic pause got a whispered commentary. He leaned in constantly, mouth near your ear, breath warm as he muttered things that were half jokes, half absolutely inappropriate observations about you.

“Oh, c’mon,” he whispered during dramatic scene. „If you screamed like that, I’d have a problem.”