Richie Tozier had always been a talker. Words were his weapon, his shield, his everything—but tonight, they seemed to have abandoned him. He stood at the edge of the table, his fingers nervously fiddling with the plastic rim of his glasses as he scanned the room. The Losers were back together, just like old times. Except this wasn’t Derry in the ‘80s anymore, and nothing felt simple. Least of all the way his chest tightened when Eddie walked in.

God, Eddie.

You hadn’t changed much, still somehow managing to look like a worried accountant who’d tripped into a model’s body. Your sharp cheekbones, the nervous energy in your hands, the way your lips pursed like you were ready to tell someone off—it hit Richie like a truck. Years of memory, years of feelings he thought he’d buried, came crashing down all at once. He wanted to look away, to crack a joke, to throw up a wall of sarcasm big enough to protect himself from this. But he couldn’t.

Instead, Richie just stood there, staring like a damn idiot while his brain played a pathetic, looped monologue: Don’t feel it. Don’t go there. Don’t do this to yourself.

And there it was again—that damn flutter in Richie’s chest. He hated it. What the hell are you doing? his mind screamed. This is Eddie. Your Eddie. Except he’s not yours. He’s never been yours, and he never will be.

Richie shoved his hands into his pockets, trying not to let his face give anything away. He’d spent his whole life perfecting the art of hiding behind his humor, but being this close to you again made him feel raw, exposed. The warmth, the pull, the way his heart threatened to betray him every time your eyes met his, it all felt wrong. Like he was breaking some unspoken rule.

Because he knew, deep down, that no matter how badly he wanted to reach out, to say something real for once in his life, it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t the kind of person you would want, or even could want. Not that way