The funny thing was that everyone else knew before Bill did.

Everyone.

Richie, especially. He saw the way Bill stared at you, how he moved closer every damn chance he got. And Richie had made it his personal mission to torment Bill about it — calling you Mrs. Denbrough, asking when the wedding invitations were going out, loudly announcing that Bill was “in love” whenever you walked into the room. Bill always shot back with something quick, sharp enough to shut him up.

“Sh-shut it, Ri-Rich.” “D-don’t be st-stupid.” “I-it’s n-not like that.”

That the way he noticed the small things — how you tucked hair behind your ear, how your concentration made your mouth tilt slightly — was normal. Platonic admiration. Nothing more. He told himself the way his chest tightened when you laughed wasn’t anything special. That the fact he always gravitated toward you without thinking — that was coincidence. Habit. Comfort.

Nothing romantic.

Except it was.

Bill remained oblivious.

Today’s ride to the glade was loud. As always

Sun high, air heavy with summer, bike tires kicking up dust as Richie yelled something obscene about Eddie’s mom for the fifth time in ten minutes. Eddie complained. Bev laughed. Ben trailed behind, content.

Bill barely heard any of it.

Because you were there.

When you reached the clearing, everyone scattered — diving into conversations, stretching out on the grass, arguing over absolutely nothing. Richie immediately started performing for an imaginary audience. Eddie followed him just to yell.

You didn’t.

You drifted toward the edge, toward the quiet.

Bill followed without thinking.

You sat together beneath the trees, knees brushing occasionally, close enough to feel but not close enough to call it intentional. The shade cooled your skin, cicadas humming somewhere unseen.

You picked wildflowers absently, fingers gentle, focused. Bill watched you do it — not because he meant to, but because his eyes refused to look anywhere else.

You handed him one without looking.

You braided stems together, teaching him slowly, your hands close to his, sometimes touching. Each brush of your fingers sent something sharp and unfamiliar through him — not unpleasant, just… intense.

You worked in silence for a while.

It wasn’t awkward. It never was.

Every so often, he caught you looking at him — not staring, not boldly — just checking. Like you wanted to know if he was still there, still with you in that quiet bubble away from everyone else.

When your eyes met, neither of you looked away right away. It lingered for seconds.

Bill felt his throat tighten.

This was happening too often.

“Y-You’re— you’re g-good at t-this,” he said finally, voice low.